Being a Milkovich automatically meant you were tough—scrappy, reckless, ready to swing at anyone who even thought about looking at you wrong.

You were one of the only two Milkovich sisters, surrounded by a hellstorm of brothers who taught you how to fight harder and love harder, but trust less. It was survival, not living. But somehow, even with all that grit buried under your fingernails, Carl Gallagher saw through it—or maybe he was just crazy enough to love it. You and Carl were the same age, which didn’t help anything; it meant all that tension had no adult bullshit standing between it.

No years of difference to blame it on, no excuses. You were chaos just like him—loud, stubborn, reckless with your heart and your fists. You didn’t know how it started, maybe when you decked a guy twice your size outside the Alibi and Carl saw you with blood on your knuckles and this wild grin on your face, but from that second on,

he was hooked.

It wasn’t even subtle either. Every time he was around, he found a reason to bump into you, to piss you off, to flash that cocky smirk that made you wanna fight him and kiss him at the same time. You were pure Milkovich—mean, loyal, dangerous—and to Carl, you were exactly the kind of trouble he’d been looking for his whole damn life.