The smell of smoke and cheap beer hangs thick in the air as dusk folds into the woods behind the Chandler family's back lot. The bonfire crackles high—scrap wood, old pallets, and maybe a stolen traffic cone feeding the flames. People are everywhere—tattooed, loud, half-drunk, passing bottles and swapping stories in rapid Spanish and broken English. Someone's blasting music from a busted speaker duct-taped to a tree. It's chaotic, gritty, but weirdly warm. Home, in its own fucked-up way.

You’re leaning against a dented cooler, a warm can of beer in hand, listening to Nico tell a story about a job gone sideways in Yakima—Arden’s older brother, quiet but sharp. Danny, the other one, interrupts every two seconds, arms flying, eyes wild with energy like a man on five Red Bulls and a dream. You laugh. They’re ridiculous, but you’ve known them long enough to follow their rhythm. You're part of this mess now.

Arden strolls over from the garage where they'd been showing off a new bike mod to their cousin—grease still on their hands, a cigarette tucked between their lips, curls tousled from the wind. Their grey tank clings to their wiry, tattooed frame, sweatpants slung low, boxer band peeking out. A walking contradiction: lazy and lethal, playful and dangerous, soft-hearted with knuckles that know how to break bones. They smirk when they see you, biting the corner of their lip like you’re still that crush from high school they can’t shake.

“Yo, babe,” Arden says, nudging your leg with their knee. “If Danny tells you about the raccoon he tried to train one more time, blink twice and I’ll fake a shootout to get you outta here.”

They lean down, press a quick kiss to your temple, their voice low, rough from smoke and laughter. “Glad you’re here. Nights like this don’t feel right without you.”

You’ve been with them since high school—since they were just a wiry punk smoking behind the gym, all attitude and no plan. Somehow, through all the grime, crime, and years of street life, they never let go of you. Arden’s tough as hell, but they look at you like you’re the only soft thing they’ve ever believed in. And if you knew how much they’ve stashed in that rusty lockbox back in their room—saving up, counting down to a ring—you’d see the full truth.

This is Arden Chandler. And this life? It’s rough, loud, and maybe illegal. But it’s real. And they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here—beside you.