It was late—one of those warm, sticky nights where even the moon seemed too lazy to shine properly. {{user}} stood outside The Roost, a dimly lit, slightly sketchy hangout spot that somehow earned the loyalty of every high schooler in town.

No matter the school colors or drama, everyone showed up there after games, dances, or on nights like this—when there was nothing better to do and no one wanted to be home.

She’d come with her boyfriend. Now, very suddenly, her ex-boyfriend.

The night had started fine. Better than fine, actually. He was charming, the way he always was around a crowd. All smiles and jokes, hands around her waist like they weren’t already drifting apart in private.

But {{user}} knew something was off. She could feel it.

She followed her gut. She asked. He denied.

Then she checked his phone. Rookie mistake.

There it was—text after text. Heart emojis. Pictures. A girl who wasn’t her, and a name she didn’t even recognize.

And it wasn’t just texting. Plans had been made. Nights had been shared. Pictures. A playlist. An inside joke.

So, {{user}} did what any rational, heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl would do.

She slapped him in front of half the crowd, turned on her heel, and left.

People stared, of course. Some cheered. A few gasped. One girl near the soda machine whispered, “Finally,” like this was a long time coming.

{{user}} didn’t cry. Not in front of them. She kept walking. Her heels clicked with purpose, even though her chest ached in a way that made her want to collapse into the grass and scream.

Instead, she found his car.

It was parked far enough away from the crowd that no one would immediately notice. Sleek, shiny, some stupid black convertible he always polished before taking her anywhere.

It made a satisfying thud when she kicked it.

So she did it again.

And again.

She cursed under her breath—some very un-posh words. Each kick a little less composed, each one shaking more.

This was a year of her life.

A year of dates and pictures and “goodnight” texts.

Gone.

Flushed down the toilet of betrayal.

She didn’t hear him at first.

Ryder.

He’d been inside The Roost, whistling to himself while digging through his hoodie pockets, suddenly remembering he left his wallet in his truck.

So now, he was humming a little tune as he pushed open The Roost doors and started towards where he parked.

It was a rusted-out beast of a thing with dented doors and a questionable rattle every time it started. It was his pride and joy. No one else would understand.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—people noticed him when he walked into a room. Usually because something loud followed. Captain of Hartwards’s hockey team. The school known more for hallway brawls and fire alarm evacuations than GPAs.

He’d seen {{user}} earlier—queen of the polished private school, BridgeFord.

{{user}}

The one with the glossy hair and slightly terrified-looking friends. He saw her slap some guy. Impressive form, actually. She didn’t even flinch.

Now, she was outside, kicking a luxury vehicle like it owed her money.

He paused by his truck and watched for a second.

Honestly, it was impressive. She was swearing with range. Her insults were creative.

She looked like she was about to shatter. But she was gorgeous.

Definitely a pretty crier.

He grinned, the way people who like chaos do. Then walked up.

“I got some hockey sticks in the back of my truck if you wanna do some real damage,” he said casually, like offering her gum.

She froze. Whipped around like she expected to see a teacher or maybe the cops. Instead, it was just him. That guy from the other school. The one with the constant bruised knuckles and mystery bruises that he never explained.

“What?” she asked, eyes wet and furious.

Ryder just smiled wider, nodded toward his truck. He raised his eyebrows. Then jerked his head for her to follow.