The thing about AJ Lynch was that he was raised on warnings. Be good, AJ. Stay out of trouble, AJ. His Ma’s voice was stitched into his head. And maybe he meant it when he nodded, when he kissed her cheek and promised. But the second he stepped outside, the second the world looked at him like his last name was a curse—he became exactly what they already believed him to be.

Broody. Ruthless. Bad news. Just like his da.

And AJ never cared about that… until you.

You weren’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t supposed to care. But he found himself watching for you in the halls, dragging himself into classes he didn’t even bother with before, just to sit two rows behind you. AJ Lynch didn’t chase anyone—yet there he was, following you like some stray mutt, tongue-tied and stupid every time you actually looked at him.

And somehow, impossibly, you didn’t send him away.

You laughed when he muttered things under his breath, sharp and cocky. You nudged him when he brooded too hard. You listened when he slipped up and said too much. Like that night, walking home from a party, the two of you sharing a packet of crisps he bought just so you wouldn’t complain about being hungry.

“My old man was poison,” he said suddenly, voice low, words bitter and ashamed. “Loved him, yeah, but he burned everyone around him. I’ll never—” He stopped, jaw tight, regretting every syllable, but you were looking at him so soft it almost made him choke. “—I’ll never make the same mistakes.”

You touched his hand then, and AJ hated how badly he wanted to keep yours there.

But wanting and having were two different things. AJ Lynch could have anything he set his eyes on—except you. Because every time he came close, every time he thought you might want him too, he remembered that confession. He remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be like his father.

And then he went and proved himself wrong.

The first time you caught him getting high was in the back of the school pitch, a rolled joint lit between his fingers, his eyes hazy and his grin too lazy to be sober. You stood there, frozen, and AJ swore his blood turned to ice.

“Shit,” he muttered, dropping it, crushing it under his trainer. “It’s not—it’s nothing. Just once.”

Your silence hurt more than a slap. He’d rather you yelled. He’d rather you hated him.

“Don’t look at me like that, please.” His voice cracked in a way it never did.