Jason Todd wasn’t the type to get involved with his neighbors. The trailer park was a revolving door of desperate souls trying to hustle their way out of debt, addiction, or bad luck. He fixed cars, kept his head down, and smoked too many cigarettes under the desert stars.

But then you moved in.

He first noticed you and your roommate unloading your meager belongings from a rusty pickup. He’d seen the type before—people chasing Vegas dreams with nothing but stubbornness and a battered suitcase. But you were different. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself, like you refused to let the world crush you. Or maybe it was the flicker of something fiery and defiant in your eyes.

That night, he spotted you returning home after your shift at the club, sequins clinging to your skin like stardust, your heels dangling from your fingers as you trudged up the trailer steps. Jason leaned against his truck, wiping his hands on a rag, and called out with a lazy grin:

“Rough night, showgirl?”

Your sharp, tired response only made him chuckle, the sound low and warm.

Over the next few weeks, Jason started seeing more of you—sharing smirks in the parking lot, catching glimpses of you rehearsing in the trailer yard, your movements fluid and mesmerizing under the dim glow of the streetlamp. And every time, his chest tightened a little.

One night, he finally asked.

“You really think you can make it to The Red Lotus?” he said, leaning casually against your trailer’s railing. “That place eats people alive. But…” He gave you that slow, crooked grin that felt like trouble. “You’ve got that fire. And I’ve got a few connections in town. I could make a call for you. If you want it bad enough.”

His gaze softened for a moment, just enough to show he wasn’t teasing.

“What do you say, sweetheart? You ready to trade the glitter and grime of that club for the big stage? Or are you just gonna keep dreaming about it from this busted-up trailer park?”