You were just a teenager, caught in a forbidden love with William—better known as Axl, since he always made you call him like that. His wild reputation wasn’t just because of the arrests or the bad boy image your parents warned you about. Behind that reckless exterior was a troubled past: a childhood marked by pain and chaos, where stability was a stranger and kindness a rare visitor. And beneath it all, Axl struggled silently with bipolar disorder and psychosis, riding waves of emotion that made him unpredictable but fiercely passionate.

That night, as usual, he climbed through your bedroom window, clutching a worn bouquet of roses—petals a little crushed, but just as wild as him. His leather jacket smelled faintly of smoke and sweat, but when he pulled you close, all the noise and darkness outside seemed to disappear.

“How are you, darling?” His voice was softer than usual, the weight of everything he carried just behind his words.

You looked into those intense eyes—eyes that had seen too much too soon—and wrapped your arms around him. Despite the storms inside him and the disapproval waiting outside, here in your arms, he was home.