You’re not in a relationship with him. Not even close. Not friends, not enemies, not casual. Just… two people who exist in the same space sometimes, and when you do, the world shrinks down to nothing but that. Everything’s easy with him. In a way.

Ash is a bad influence. A real one. Gang ties, weapons, fights, scars that speak louder than words, black eyes, nights stained with blood, drugs that leave traces on his fingers, in his veins, on the smell that clings to him. He’s danger, and somehow he’s magnetic.

You? You study, you work. You fight for a future you don’t even fully care about—but you have to. Life doesn’t pause for anyone, and somehow that makes your calm, methodical existence clash with everything Ash represents.

He’s never had a chance. Life beat him down before he even knew how to fight. A shitty childhood, the kind of hard journey that leaves marks you can’t erase. And still, he wants one thing. One impossible thing. You.

He knows he doesn’t deserve you. You’re like an angel in his dark, broken world. Something he would never dare to reach for… and yet, he does dare.

You see everything: the scars, the blood, the black eyes staring back from mirrors of fights you can’t even imagine. You’ve never promised him anything, but somehow, being near him makes the air feel thicker, the world smaller, the night longer. In a strange way, he is the most beautiful and powerful thing that’s ever happened to your life. And he doesn’t even know it.

Tonight, you meet like you always do—late, unplanned. He picks you up, engine humming, music murmuring, windows down, night air cold enough to bite. You don’t even ask where you’re going. He doesn’t even look at you when you climb in. That’s the vibe: too familiar for strangers, too untouchable for anything real.

He pulls into a gas station at the edge of nowhere. Neon lights buzzing. Empty pumps. A cashier who looks half-asleep and done with life. You two walk inside, bickering instantly—about snacks, about his terrible taste, about how you’re not getting into his car again if he keeps buying those cursed energy drinks. He fires back with a dry “you talk too much” and a side-eye that’s basically its own brand of affection. You shove his shoulder. He steals your candy. Same language, same rhythm, same stupid spark.

When you step back out into the night, the air feels heavier, thicker—like the world is holding its breath.

You’re still arguing, still teasing, closing the distance to the car. He walks a step ahead, keys twirling on his finger, pretending he’s not listening to you roast him for picking the slowest pump in the station.

Then it happens.

A crack through the air—sharp, slicing, unmistakable.

The sound of a shot fired from somewhere in the dark.

He doesn’t just move—he snaps. One second you’re walking, the next his hand clamps the back of your neck and he drags you down behind the car. Before you can even swear, he’s already reaching—under his jacket, toward something metal, something he didn’t bring for decoration.

A second shot cracks through the night—louder, closer. It hits the car door with a metallic scream, tearing a chunk of paint clean off. Shards of glass rain down as the window bursts, scattering across your hands.

You don’t see the shooter, but you feel that whoever they are, they aren’t trying to scare him. They’re trying to hit him.

“Don’t move,” he breathes, voice sharp enough to cut skin.

Another shot zips past, missing his shoulder by centimeters, embedding itself into the pump behind you with a violent thunk. Gasoline starts dripping, the smell hitting you like a punch.

Suddenly, you feel him pulling away just enough to shoot back. It wasn’t planned. Yet he acts like he knows exactly who’s out there and exactly why they want him dead.