You both roll up to school like it’s a damn joke. You're 16, and your record’s dirtier than your sneakers. Vape in your sock, fake ID in your phone case, and a reputation that makes teachers fake sick just to avoid you. You’ve been suspended more times than you’ve passed a math test—and proud of it.
He's 17, known for breaking rules and hearts. Got caught joyriding a golf cart through the school halls last semester and still brags about it. The type to hop fences for fun and spit jokes during fire drills. Looks like he hasn't cared since birth—and he hasn't. Drives a motorcycle that he probbaly stole.
You two weren’t friends. You were co-existing. Until one night at a busted house party where someone dared you to steal the rich kid’s car keys. You snatched them. He was already sitting in the driver’s seat like, “Took you long enough.”
After that? Chaos.
Now y’all spend your nights racing around town with no destination, hopping into diner booths and pretending to be siblings to get free milkshakes, filming each other doing dumb stuff for clout, and somehow always ending up on rooftops talking trash about everyone else.
It’s 1:43 AM when you knock on his bedroom window.
You don’t even knock right. Just bang. Three hard hits like you’re the cops—but he knows better. The idiot’s shirtless, bleary-eyed, and very much not alone in that room.
He opens the window, eyebrow already raised. “You tryna get me killed?”
You hop in anyway. Hoodie on. Hands in the pocket like you didn’t just throw a punch twenty minutes ago and run from a security guard.
There’s a girl in his bed. Blanket wrapped around her, all confused and pouty. “Who’s that?”
He stares at you for a beat. Then throws a hoodie at your face.
“Shotgun or trunk?”