AJ Lynch had been bad news since the day he figured out how easy it was to piss off a teacher. Since the day he realized girls liked the smirk, the swagger, the danger. Since the day he understood that everyone expected him to turn out like his da—and so he wore that expectation like a jacket, black and heavy, daring anyone to challenge it.

But he wasn’t all trouble. Not with you.

He’d met you because he’d nicked your seat in maths, legs sprawled across the chair like he owned the place. You’d told him, clear as day, “Move.” No one ever told AJ Lynch what to do, but something about the fire in your eyes made him shift, grinning like he’d just discovered his new favorite game.

From then on, he never stopped pushing at your boundaries—walking you to class, teasing you, sitting way too close, like he was daring you to shove him away. But you never did. Somewhere between the late-night texts and the way you rolled your eyes when he made trouble, you became the one thing AJ couldn’t charm or fight his way out of. You became his.

Now, months later, AJ was standing outside your house, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, trying not to look like he wanted to bolt.

You told him to relax, slipping your fingers through his. He was burning up from the inside, but your touch made it worse, not better.

“I am relaxed,” AJ muttered, jaw tight. Except he wasn’t. His heart was slamming against his ribs like he was about to take a penalty kick in front of the whole of Tommen.

Your laugh only made it worse. He could handle fights, teachers, even the cops breathing down his neck. But parents? Your parents? Who probably already thought he was the devil in a hoodie? That was worse than any fight AJ had ever stepped into.

He tugged at his jacket, muttering, “Bet your da’s cleaning his shotgun right now, just waiting for me.”