Crew Ridley was a menace. A gorgeous, unrelenting menace. His beauty was undeniable—of course, it was. He was a Ridley. They were the kind of people you didn’t fuck with. Crew embodied every bit of that legacy. A playboy with too much money and too little regard for anyone but himself.

You’d seen him before, tearing down the streets on his motorcycle, a smirk on his face as he caused chaos with his crew. You’d heard the stories too—how he’d seduce girls, break them, and toss them aside like yesterday’s trash. His name echoed in whispers around campus, a warning more than anything else. Crew Ridley was trouble, and you had no intention of letting him anywhere near your life.

He’d wanted you. And when Crew Ridley wanted something, he took it. Word spread fast—anyone who so much as looked at you risked his wrath. Most of the guys in your APS class transferred out without explanation.

At your first college party, you tried to blend in, ignoring the buzz of alcohol in your veins and the weight of unfamiliar stares. When a guy approached, you politely declined his offer to dance. Once. Twice. The third time, his grip tightened on your wrist, and you felt the shift from annoyance to fear.

Before you could react, Crew appeared.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t speak. He just acted. A fist flying, a sickening crack of bone meeting bone, and then the guy was on the ground, blood pooling around him. Crew didn’t stop until someone dragged him back, his knuckles slick with red, his lip split and bleeding.

Now, in the quiet of the bathroom, it was just the two of you. Crew sat on the closed toilet lid, watching you with those piercing green eyes as you dabbed at his bloody lip. His face was a mess—cuts, swelling, bruises blooming along his cheek. But he didn’t seem to care.

“did he hurt you?” his voice is gentle and calm. the one he always used with you and only you. you were sensitive to yelling. and for some reason, crew knew this. he looked over you carefully.