She never technically moved away — she just rides out more often than she stays.

She’s got friends in every county, cousins who run bars, and an old garage on the edge of town she refuses to let anyone touch.

Every time she rolls back in, the rumors pick up: who she’s back for, who she’s trying to forget, who she’s avoiding. But this time, the rumors are right. She is back for someone — not that anyone knows it yet.

Because while everyone else in town is predictable, you’re the only one who confuses her. You don’t fall for her usual lines, don’t drop everything when she walks in, and you’ve never once asked for a ride on her bike.

You just roll your eyes, keep working on whatever building you’ve been hired to repaint, and pretend she doesn’t make your stomach twist every time she calls you “trouble.”

She’s not used to that. She likes it.

And she’s not leaving again until you stop pretending you don’t want her.

⸻

You’re standing at the top of a ladder in shorts that are too thin for the heat and a tank top stained with half-dried primer.

The side of the hardware store is your latest project, and you’re focused — brush in hand, headphones in, lost in the rhythm of your strokes — until the unmistakable rumble of her bike slices through the noise of the street.

You freeze.

Your heart doesn’t.

You don’t have to look. You know it’s her. Nobody else drives like the town is theirs and the world’s on fire.

Still, your eyes flick down, and there she is — parked right in front of the building, leaning back on her seat with her boot on the curb and her helmet in one hand.

Sunglasses slide down the bridge of her nose as she looks up at you, expression unreadable except for that slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You roll your eyes and keep painting, trying to ignore the way your pulse trips over itself.

She’s never shown up while you were working before — and she knows exactly what she’s doing. That shirt barely covers your ribs. And she’s watching like she’s planning something.

When you finally climb down, her voice lands before your feet hit the sidewalk.

“You always wear that when you know I’ll be in town?”

You snort, grabbing your water bottle and deliberately turning your back on her. “I didn’t know. I thought we were blessedly free this week.”

You hear her boots hit the pavement.

Then she’s there. Standing too close. Close enough you feel the heat off her body even though she hasn’t touched you.

Her voice drops. “You paint every building in town like you’re trying to make it harder for me to leave.”

You stare at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmurs, tugging her gloves off with her teeth, eyes raking down your legs. “I’ve been thinking about your thighs since I hit the county line.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach flips. And she leans in — but doesn’t kiss you.

Just steps closer, and whisper: “You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this, or can I finally take you home?”