You remember him, of course.

Jacks. Your highschool first love. It was all roses and shy smiles and hand holding under desks with him, fluttering hearts and blush-tinted cheeks. Until he’d disappeared one day, broke up with you through a text— a text!— and you’d never seen him again.

And now, here he is, with that disarming smile that you both want to kiss and punch off his face.

In any other circumstance, this would be cute. But what’s not cute is the gun in his waistband.