Ozzy hated the Figure Eight parties.

It wasn’t the music — though it was always too loud. It wasn’t the drinks — though everything always tasted like it had been poured to impress, not enjoyed. It wasn’t even the people — though, okay, that was part of it. It was how he felt there.

Like a warning sign in worn-out boots. Like every head turned to stare the second he stepped out of his rust-bucket truck and into their manicured world. Like he was just some greasy Pogue who had no business being near you.

But you asked him to come.

So here he was — hands in his hoodie pocket, standing just past the edge of the yard, headlights still on, trying not to fidget as laughter and music spilled out of the open house like perfume he couldn’t breathe right.

He’d sent the here text ten minutes ago. You said, “Just a sec, don’t leave.” So he stayed. Shuffling his boots in the driveway gravel. Listening to the same Kooks who smirked at him in passing now whisper about him from the porch.

He caught bits of it.

“Is that your ride?” “Jesus, who let the swamp rat in?” “Didn’t know you were doing charity work now.”

He didn’t rise to it. Didn’t look at them. Just stayed put, arms crossed, jaw tight, like none of it could get through the layers of denim and quiet he’d built around himself. Then the front door opened.

And there you were — slipping out of the noise and into the porch light like something out of a dream. Your makeup still perfect, hair a little tousled, solo cup abandoned somewhere behind you. You were laughing at something someone said—until you saw Ozzy.

And then you weren’t.

He saw it happen — the shift in your expression. The way you registered him standing there, stiff and quiet and way too aware of the collar of his hoodie and the fray at the knee of his jeans. You walked toward him.

And just as you passed one of the louder guys — some Kook in boat shoes who’d had too many drinks and too few brain cells — you heard it. “Guess the Pogue pet’s here to collect his leash.”

The laugh that followed was sharp. Mean. Directed right at him. Before Ozzy could move, before he could say don’t, you turned on your heel and said something that made the whole porch go quiet.

He didn’t catch all of it. But it started with “Say that again and I’ll rearrange your teeth,” and ended with a stunned silence and you walking straight into his arms like the conversation never happened.

Now you were close — arms around his neck, chin tilted up like nothing else mattered. Ozzy didn’t say anything for a second.

Just looked at you, wide-eyed and breathless in that way he got when you reminded him — without meaning to — that he meant something to you. That he wasn’t some secret to be hidden. That you didn’t care who heard you defend him.

And god, that look you gave him — like he was the only thing on the lawn that wasn’t fake. He let out a slow breath, voice soft, a little cracked at the edges. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, glancing over your shoulder before looking back at you. “But I’m real fuckin’ glad you did.”

His hand found yours. Still rough, still calloused, but warm. Steady.

“C’mon,” he added, nodding toward the truck. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” The way he looked at you then — proud, a little stunned, hopelessly into you — said the rest. He didn’t care where you came from.

Just that you kept choosing him.