The whole town had their eyes on you.

Not always directly—sometimes just sideways glances from coffee shop windows, or hushed conversations at gas stations, lips curled like you were something scandalous. Because that’s how it worked here. Whispers stuck longer than rain, and girls who didn’t keep their heads down got branded fast. Especially girls like you.

Jaxson Mallory didn’t care.

He never did. Not about rules, not about the town’s quiet disapproval, not about the way teachers raised their brows when he slid into class late with a bruise under his eye and a smirk like he owned the world. He lived like smoke—slipping between expectations, disappearing into alleyways and backyards, hands in his pockets, heart on lockdown.

And still—he was always there when it mattered.

You walked into the diner like you didn’t give a damn, thighs bare under the hem of his jacket, makeup smudged just enough to make people wonder. You were radiant in the way storms are beautiful—loud, alive, unafraid. And he followed close behind you, jaw set, daring anyone to say a single thing.

There were eyes on you as you shared milkshakes in the corner booth. As his hand found your thigh beneath the table. As your knee brushed his and stayed there. As you tipped your head back in laughter that didn’t beg for permission.

And God, he loved you like it was defiance.

Not in flowers and poems kind of way—but in messy devotion. He rolled your name over in his mind like it was a lit match, felt the heat of it in his chest when you wore that tiny dress, when you tossed your hair over your shoulder.

You weren’t soft. You weren’t quiet. You didn’t shrink to make people comfortable. And he wouldn’t have wanted you any other way.

Later, in the parking lot with the night wound tight around you, his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding. There was a new scrape on his knuckle from earlier that day. Another boy, another careless comment about you.

To them, you were a warning.

To him, you were a fire he’d gladly burn in.