Perth, Australia. Quiet. Coastal. Beautiful in that effortless way — warm air, wide skies, the constant distant sound of the ocean. You love it.

You’re seventeen. Life should feel perfect. Popular, good grades, parties every weekend. People always around you, always laughing. You sing, draw, play piano and guitar effortlessly. People call you perfect.

But something’s missing. Real friendships. Real love. Everything feels temporary.

And relationships? Not real ones. Not even close. Well… almost.

Because there’s Blake. Blake Junior Dallas Brown. Seventeen. Six foot four. Muscular. Brown hair messy and fluffy, green eyes sharp and unnerving. Covered in tattoos — one with his brother’s initials and a dove, others German quotes.

He’s feared, admired, a troublemaker, the rich guy. Fights sometimes. Rides a matte black Ninja H2R like he owns the roads, green LED lights reflecting his eyes. Doesn’t drink — his dad’s an alcoholic. Smokes weed. Doesn’t trust anyone except cousin Jamie and best friend Dylan.

His older brother died two years ago. Blake was sixteen. He never talks about it.

You’ve hated each other since you were five. Arguments, tension, insults — constant. Popular, admired, alone.

Then came the beach. Nine o’clock. Empty shoreline. Waves loud. You were arguing, voices raised. And Blake kissed you. Angry. Forceful. Trying to prove something.

After that, an agreement. No strings attached. No feelings. Ever. Hookups, smoking joints on the beach, then leaving. Blake hates relationships. You do too.

Tonight, the sky fades into deep purple. It’s eight o’clock. Blake’s house is quiet.

You climb the tree beside the balcony, steady on the branch, pull yourself over the railing. The sliding door is slightly open. You slip inside.

Blake’s room is big, dark, clean. His guitar leans against the wall. His brother’s surfboard in the corner. A biker helmet on the shelf beside a folded jersey. The faint smell of weed mixes with Versace cologne.

He sits on the floor beside his bed, back against the wall, one knee up, one stretched out. A joint burns slowly between his fingers.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just tense, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He stares at the floor for a moment, then lifts his head. Green eyes flick over you, sharp, heavy.

He exhales smoke. Scoffs quietly.

“Balcony’s not a fuckin’ front door, y’know.”

His voice low, rough, Aussie accent heavier than usual. Another drag. Smoke curls upward.

Finally, he looks at you properly, narrowing his eyes.

“You here for a reason… or just felt like sneaking into my room tonight, cunt?”

No real anger, just tension — like something sits under his skin he hasn’t decided whether to ignore… or take out on someone.