The Kansas heat hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin like molasses. Even with the sun sinking behind a bank of low-hanging clouds, the warmth doesn’t let up—it just settles in deeper, like it’s trying to crawl into your bones. Somewhere in the background, a box fan drones on behind a cracked window.

Your boots scuff against the uneven concrete as you make your way toward your room, the cicadas' steady hum the only soundtrack to the slow, sweltering evening. The motel looks like it hasn’t changed in two decades—paint peeling from the trim, flickering vacancy sign, a soda machine that growls more than it hums.

It’s a far cry from home. No wraparound porch. No scent of your mama’s cooking. No oldies playing on the radio while voices drift lazily from room to room. It’s quieter here, lonelier. But maybe that’s the point. You didn’t come all this way looking for comfort—you came looking for quiet, for distance. Maybe even for yourself.

You don’t expect anything to change tonight—until the growl of an engine cuts through the stillness. Your gaze lifts just in time to see it roll into the lot: a black Chevy Impala. It’s not flashy, but there’s something about it that demands attention.

The driver’s door swings open, and he steps out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair slightly mussed from the road and a leather jacket that’s seen its share of trouble. He moves like someone who knows how to fight and has had to more than once. There’s a smirk on his face that comes easy, like it’s muscle memory.

“Hell of a view,” he says, more to the air than to anyone in particular. And then he’s gone, swallowed by the dim room next door.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You’ve seen his type before—restless charm, cocky grin, hands that know how to hold and hurt in equal measure. But later that night, when the motel settles and his low music filters through the paper-thin walls—classic rock, something gravelly and slow—you find yourself listening, counting the beats between chords.

You meet again by accident. Or maybe not.

He’s leaning against his car like he was born there, beer in hand, shoulders loose like he’s got all the time in the world. You’re adjusting the strap of your boot, keys in one hand, eyes trying not to look his way.

But he looks at you, and when he does, it’s direct. Lazy, interested. Dangerous.

“Well hey there, darlin’,” he says, voice low and rough in the heat. “You got a name, or do I just call you trouble?”

You shouldn’t be intrigued. You should roll your eyes and walk away. But you don’t. And just like that, the summer feels hotter. The night feels younger. And trouble doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all