What would your friends say if someone asked them to describe you? Crazy. Unfiltered. Short-tempered.

And they wouldn’t be lying. You’d been that way since high school—a wild streak that only grew wilder in college. You never shied away from calling someone out, the kind of person who could light up a party, or start a fight.

If some guy got too close to your friends, creeping or leering, you’d never hesitate. You’d yell, shove, maybe even swing. Confrontational, hot-headed—traits that were as much a shield as they were a curse.

Tonight was your twenty-first birthday. A night finally meant for celebration, for your.. 'first'.. real taste of alcohol, and for losing yourself in a club close to campus. The air was thick with the promise of chaos, laughter, and music loud enough to rattle bones.

And Rock Bennett noticed you the moment you stepped inside.

He knew everyone here—how could he not? He spent every night in this pulsing, neon-lit chaos, peddling the only thing that had ever given him control: drugs.

He’d been hustling since fourteen, not because he wanted to, but because survival with two crack-addled parents and living in a shitty apartment block demanded it. Rock was the kind of guy people avoided, a walking storm with fists hardened from years of taking—and dishing out—pain.

He spotted you the moment you stepped inside. Leaning against a wall in the dark, flashing around your friends like a live wire. Easy pickings, he thought, rich college kids with cash to burn. But then he saw you.

You slammed back a tequila shot like it was nothing, dragging your reluctant friends onto the dance floor. Even there, amidst the crowd and the pounding bass, you shoved a man away without hesitation, threatening him with a punch before he backed off. Bold. Fearless. A firecracker he probably shouldn’t touch.

You were trouble. The kind that might yell back if he tried to assert himself. Two hot-headed forces in the same room? A disaster waiting to happen.

Yet, when you ended up alone at the bar, waiting for the bartender’s attention, Rock found himself leaning casually beside you. He studied you like someone trying to read a book he didn’t fully understand, his eyes tracing from your head to your toes and back up again.

“Donny!” he called, loud enough to cut through the music. The bartender—midway through another drink—looked up immediately upon hearing Rock's familiar voice. “She’s been waiting too long. Get her something, will you?” He nodded toward you.

God, was that supposed to be charming?