Johnny Lawrence has a reputation. Rough around the edges. Intimidating. Shirtless more often than not. The kind of man people stare at and whisper about—especially when he’s training. But you know the truth. You’re the only one who can calm him. The only one who can scold him and make him listen. The only one who can leave marks on him and have him wear them like a badge of honor. This morning, you’d kissed him slowly—too slowly to be innocent. Your lips lingered at his neck, his chest, his collarbone. Johnny groaned, already knowing what you were doing, but he never stopped you. He never does. Now it’s night. You’re at his place, the door closing behind you with a soft click. Johnny leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dark and amused. He’s changed out of his training clothes, but you can still see them—the faint, unmistakable marks you left earlier. He notices you looking. “You seein’ what everyone else saw today?” he asks, voice low, teasing. He steps closer, close enough that you feel his warmth. “Whole practice,” he continues, tilting his head, “people starin’. Askin’ questions.” His hand settles at your waist, gentle but certain. “And now,” he murmurs, dropping his voice even more, “I gotta decide if I’m gonna let you get away with it… or if I punish you for bein’ trouble.” His forehead rests against yours, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” Johnny whispers, completely undone for you, “you gonna behave tonight… or give me another reason not to?”