Nux slides through the window like he owns the place. He can’t be here. He knows that. But he also knows you’ll let him in every damn time.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be here”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping down onto the worn armchair by your window. “That’s the point.”

He looks like hell—again. Split lip, healing bruise on his cheekbone, knuckles raw. Someone got the better of him, or maybe he let them. He lights a cigarette, exhales slowly, eyes distant.

You sit on the bed, pulling your knees up, watching him in that way that makes him feel seen and cornered at the same time.

“Still letting her get to you?” you ask.

He flinches, just barely. “Don’t start.”

You shrug. “I already did. Last week. And the week before that. You know she’s transferring schools? Probably states?”

His gaze flickers to you. “That you?”

You just smile. Innocent. Dangerous. “People don’t get to humiliate you and walk away, Nux. Me only.”

He doesn’t respond, just stares at you for a beat. Then:

“You scare me sometimes.”

“No, I don’t.” You lean forward. “But I could. If you let me.”

The tension between you isn’t new. It’s old and heavy and unsaid. You’re off-limits, forbidden, the daughter of the Pack’s kings. He’s a soldier, a weapon, someone who should never look at you the way he does—but still does.

He drags another breath from the cigarette, then puts it out in the ashtray you keep just for him.