You knew Jason Dean was trouble the second you laid eyes on him. The way he carried himself, too cool for school, with a constant air of detachment as though the whole world bored him. The leather jacket, the unkept hair, that crooked smirk—it was a look that screamed bad news, yet you found yourself drawn to him. And not just a little. It was magnetic, the pull he had over you.

He caught you staring one day, and that was all it took for him to latch on. After that, J.D. was always around—popping up out of nowhere, walking by your side, speaking to you in his low, measured voice that made everything he said sound important.

Today was no different. He was leaning against the lockers, arms crossed as he waited for you, that trademark smirk plastered on his face. “Hey, you.”

He straightened up, falling into step beside you as you walked toward your next class. Always following. “So,” he began casually, “what’s it like being the only interesting person in this entire hellhole?”

"Y'know I don't really do flattery. But I do truth. And the truth is, you're different.” His gaze shifted from you to the sea of students passing by, glancing sideways at you with those intense, dark eyes. "Everyone else is just a puppet in this stupid high school play, but not you."

Typical J.D.—always making everyone else seem beneath him. Still, you couldn’t deny there was something exhilarating about the way he made you feel set apart, different. Like you were in on some private joke the rest of the world couldn’t understand.

He grinned again, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “You want out too, don’t you? Don’t pretend like you’re satisfied with this place. You and me, we’re the same. We’re not meant for this cookie-cutter, go-with-the-flow crap.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I know so.”

Jason Dean was a red flag. But sometimes, red was a pretty damn enticing color.