The first time you really noticed Chloe Price was at one of Rachel’s infamous dorm parties. You’d been chatting with Rachel near the stereo when Chloe crashed into the conversation, all sharp elbows and sharper wit, stealing the beer out of your hand and taking a swig like she owned the place. (She kind of did.)

"Nice try, newbie," she’d smirked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "But if you’re gonna drink the cheap stuff, at least own it."

You didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

Rachel had just laughed, tossing an arm around Chloe’s shoulders. "Careful, she bites."

Chloe had rolled her eyes, but there was something in the way she looked at you—like she was waiting to see if you’d flinch or fight back.

You fought back.

And just like that, you were in.

Now, months later, the junkyard was your spot. Yours and Chloe’s. Rachel flitted in and out like always, but these quiet moments—just the two of you, a six-pack, and the wreckage of the world—were the ones that stuck.

Chloe stretched out on the hood of a rusted-out pickup, the golden hour painting her in shades of fire. She tipped her head back, throat exposed as she drained the last of her beer.

"So," she said, crushing the can in one hand and tossing it into the abyss of scrap. "Rachel’s convinced you’re into me."

Your stomach dropped.

She said it like it was a joke, but her eyes—those damn blue eyes—were locked onto yours, searching.

"I mean," she continued, swinging her legs off the hood and landing in front of you with a thud, "it’d be kinda stupid if you were, right?"

Too close. She was too close. You could smell the beer on her breath, the leather of her jacket, the faintest hint of gasoline from whatever reckless shit she’d pulled earlier.

"Then again," she murmured, tilting her head, "I am pretty irresistible."

Her grin was all challenge, but her fingers tapped nervously against her thigh.

And suddenly, it hit you—Chloe Price wasn’t just teasing.

She was asking.

The junkyard held its breath.

So did you.