Corey Williams was the type of boy parents warned you about. Blonde hair always messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, tracksuits smelling like smoke, and a temper that could flip from calm to lethal in seconds. Everyone knew him as the plug, the fighter, the one you didn’t mess with unless you had a death wish. But behind the bravado and the coke lines, there was something hollow in him, a kind of recklessness that didn’t care if he made it past nineteen.

You were nothing like him. Or at least, that’s what people said. You were the Y2K princess, glitter nails, butterfly clips in your hair, Juicy Couture tracksuits, pink flip phone always in hand. You’d grown up promising yourself you wouldn’t touch that kind of scene, your mum had been ruined by it, your dad wasn’t around since he kept working to give you the pink, wealthy, and posh life you had and you swore you’d never end up like that. But Corey had a way of pulling you in, like gravity, making you ignore all the red flags flashing in your face.

The first night you actually met him, it was at a house party. You’d heard about him from whispers in school, people calling him a “dealer,” “a psycho,” even “bad news.” He was leaned back in the corner of the room, blunt in hand, jaw sharp under the flickering LED lights. He’d just finished a deal with some skinny kid who bolted out the back, stuffing something in his pocket. Corey was on his way out too, brushing past the crowd without caring who got shoved.

That’s when he slammed into you. You stumbled back into the wall, spilling half your WKD down your arm. He didn’t even flinch, just turned those sharp brown eyes on you. He looked you up and down, taking in your glitter, your glossy lips, your little pink purse hanging off your arm.

“Watch where you’re goin’, princess,” he muttered, voice low and edged with that South London bite. He didn’t sound sorry. If anything, he sounded like he was warning you.