good girl

He was already too old to be feeling things like that.

That’s what he told himself.

Bad reputation. Worse habits. The kind of man people warned you about without knowing his name. He’d done his time being trouble and figured that was all he’d ever be good at.

Then there was you.

Young in the way that wasn’t about age — just… light. Like the world hadn’t gotten its hands on you yet. You smiled easy. Looked at him like he was more than what everyone else saw.

They said he painted you pretty.

Said he turned you into something you weren’t because he needed it to be real.

Maybe he did.

He imagined you softer than the world would let you stay. Imagined he could keep you safe just by standing close. Imagined that if he raised hell, it’d be worth it — as long as it was for you.

He never pretended he was good.

Just hoped he was good enough.

You’d sit beside him, legs swinging, talking about nothing. He’d listen like it mattered. Like memorizing you might save him later.

Now he sits alone. Same bar. Same song.

The paint’s chipped. The picture’s faded.

But when he closes his eyes, you’re still there.

Still pretty.

Still worth it.

And if loving you was just another bad decision?

You didn’t notice the chair at first.

You were distracted, looking for a place to sit while you waited on your drink. The bar was crowded but calm, all neon beer signs and low country music.

You slid into the empty chair without thinking.

A moment later—

“Uh, excuse me.”

You turned. He was standing there already. Big. Solid. Arms crossed like that was where they belonged. He didn’t look mad. He just looked… sure.

“I think you got my chair.”

“Oh— I’m sorry,” you said immediately, starting to get up. “I didn’t know someone was—”

“No, it’s alright,” he interrupted, holding a hand up. “You’re already sittin’.”

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was just standin’ here wonderin’ if you’d even notice.”

You laughed softly, embarrassed. “I didn’t. I promise.”

That cracked something in him. Not a smile—just a shift. He leaned against the bar instead, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without him touching you.

“So,” he said, glancing down at you, “you waitin’ on someone?”

You shook your head. “Just killing time.”

“Good,” he said. “’Cause I was hopin’ you weren’t.”

He told you he didn’t usually talk to strangers. You believed him. Everything about him said he kept to himself. Quiet. Gruff. The kind of man people thought was mean until they learned better—or didn’t stick around long enough to.

Conversation came easy anyway. Slow. Comfortable. He asked where you were from. You asked what he drank. He teased you for apologizing so much. You teased him for pretending he wasn’t watching you before you ever sat down.

“You know,” he said after a while, nodding toward the chair, “I don’t think I ever told you why I came over here.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Truth is, I was wonderin’ if you’d like to sit and talk awhile.”

Your heart skipped. “I think we already are.”

He smiled then. Just barely.

“Guess that chair did me a favor.”

And when you finally stood to leave, he stood too. Automatically. Protective like breathing.

“Mind if I walk you out?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

He’s at deer camp deep in the woods with his buddies. It’s nighttime, the fire is dying down, the cabins are creaking, and everyone else is half-asleep or drunk by the pit.

You’re at home, bored, restless, and missing him in that way that hits late at night.

He slips away from the fire and goes into the old hunting cabin — the one with the faded wood panels and the ancient laptop sitting on the table with a screen that hums when it turns on.

He calls you.

The minute you answer, his voice is low, warm, tired, country-deep:

“Damn, sweetheart… I needed to hear you.”

He sits on the creaky cot, boots still on, leaning forward with one forearm braced on his knee. The only light in the cabin is the dim glow of the old laptop camera flickering on his face.

You two start talking — teasing first, soft at the edges.

Then it turns into that tone.

The kind that’s only allowed past midnight.

Every time you shift in your sheets, he hears it through the phone.

Every breath you take makes him lean closer to the screen.

He can’t touch you, can’t come home, can’t do anything except listen… and it drives him insane in the best way.

Meanwhile, outside the cabin, his buddies stumble in laughing, tossing beers, loud as hell.

One of them bangs on the wall:

“Hey man! Who you talkin’ sweet on in there? Let us see!”

He goes stiff.

Jaw tight.

Eyes burning into the laptop camera as he snaps:

“No. Ain’t nobody seein’ her.”

They laugh, teasing him.

But he shuts the door, locks it, and turns back to you with that expression — the one that says he’s jealous, roughed up, and completely gone for you.

He lowers his voice until it’s a growl:

“They don’t get to hear you.

They don’t get to see you.

You’re mine tonight.”

Even through the phone, the tension gets thick.

You can hear the fire popping outside.

You can hear him breathing harder.

You can hear the mattress creak when he shifts closer to the camera.

It’s heated.

Private.

Frustrating in the best way because he’s miles away —

and neither of you can do a damn thing except talk…

You didn’t mean to run into him.

You never meant to run into him.

Not since the breakup.

Not since he slammed your heart in a door and walked away like it didn’t cost him anything.

Small towns don’t care about your healing, though.

They just spit you out where the universe wants you to face him.

And today, apparently, the universe had jokes.

You were stepping out of the gas station with an iced tea when his truck rolled up beside you — that familiar rumble you tried so hard to forget.

You froze.

He didn’t.

He got out like he’d been expecting this, like he’d been waiting on it — broad shoulders, worn jeans, t-shirt hugging him in all the ways you remembered. Too well.

He shut the door with his hip and looked at you.

Not a casual look.

A slow, burning sweep from your shoes to your mouth, stopping just long enough on your throat to make you heat up.

Then that smile — the one he only used when he was about to piss you off.

“Well hey, sweetheart.”

He tipped his head, voice soft, dangerous.

“Haven’t seen you around.”

You swallowed.

“Maybe because I’ve been avoiding you.”

His jaw flexed — just barely.

Then he smirked like it didn’t touch him.

“Yeah?” he drawled.

“How’s that been workin’ out?”

You wanted to throw your iced tea at him.

Instead, you squared your shoulders.

“I’m fine. I’m doing great, actually.”

He stepped closer — not touching, but close enough that the air thickened.

“That’s funny,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips,

“’cause you don’t look fine.”

You shot him a glare.

“You don’t get to say things like that anymore.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek — a tell.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

“Shouldn’t say it.”

Another step.

Now you had to tilt your chin up to look at him.

“But I still notice.”

You hated the way your heartbeat jumped.

He saw it.

Of course he saw it.

His gaze softened for half a second — half — then the cocky mask snapped right back on.

“Relax,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm, “I’m just bein’ friendly. Tryna be polite. Tryna—” his eyes dipped lower— “have a nice day.”

You scoffed.

“You don’t even know what polite means.”

He leaned in so close your breath hitched.

“You didn’t complain about my manners before.”

Your fingers tightened around your drink.

“People change.”

“Do they?”

His hand came up — slow — brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, knuckle grazing your jaw.

You didn’t pull away.

You should have.

His breath ghosted your cheek.

“’Cause I’m standin’ here lookin’ at you,” he murmured, voice thickening, “and you’re actin’ real different, but you’re still… you.”

Your inhale was sharp.

“And me?” he asked, eyes dropping to your mouth.

“I’m still wantin’ you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t.”

He smiled — not mocking this time.

Something rawer.

Almost painful.

“You think I don’t hear that song and think about you?”

His thumb brushed your jaw again, softer.

“You think it don’t kill me that I did everything wrong?”

You tried to speak.

You couldn’t.

He leaned in — foreheads almost touching.

“You think I came here for gas?”

His voice dipped.

“I came here for you.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped back suddenly — giving you space you didn’t ask for and didn’t want.

He ran a hand over his face, then gestured vaguely at the door.

“Anyway,” he said, voice husky but trying to play it cool,

“don’t let me ruin your mornin’. Have a nice day.”

He turned.

You should’ve let him walk.

But your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Wait.”

He stopped instantly.

Didn’t turn.

Just froze — like those four letters hit every place you still lived inside him.

When he finally looked back at you, his eyes were darker, hungrier, hopeful in the way that terrified you.

“What?” he asked.

You swallowed, stepping closer.

“You… didn’t ruin it.”

And there it was — the shift.

The spark.

The thing you tried to bury for months.

Returning like it never left.

He didn’t smile this time.

He just whispered,

You were restocking shelves, humming to yourself, totally unprepared for the storm that walked through that door.

Boots thudding, shoulders broad, eyes locked on you like you were the thing he came here for.

Not the store.

Not the soda.

You.

He didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

“That top’s gonna kill me,” he drawled, stopping right in front of you.

You didn’t even look at him.

“Go away.”

He stepped closer.

“Yeah, no. That’s not happenin’.”

You went to push past him — big mistake.

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you just enough off balance that your breath caught.

“What are you doing?” you snapped.

“Tryin’ real damn hard not to pick you up and put you on this counter.”

His voice was low, warm, dangerous.

“People can see—”

“Then stop starin’ at me like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

His thumb brushed the hem of your shirt, slow, testing.

You didn’t step away.

He noticed.

His smirk sharpened as he leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear.

“Y’know… when you let me get close like this? Makes it real hard to behave.”

Your knees went embarrassingly weak.

You shoved his chest again — and he finally moved.

But only to corner you between the shelf and his body, hands braced on either side of you.

Every inch of him pressed close.

Too close.

“You wanna keep pretendin’?” he murmured, nose trailing your jaw.

“You wanna act like you don’t melt every time I touch you?”

“I don’t—”

He cut you off by grabbing your chin gently, tilting your face up.

“Princess,” he said softly, like a warning and a promise, “I can feel you shaking.”

You hated him.

You hated how right he was.

When you didn’t answer, he slid one hand down your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt — warm, rough, slow.

He dragged his palm up your spine, pulling you flush against him.

Your breath stuttered.

“That’s it,” he whispered.

“Don’t run from me.”

His head dipped, lips brushing the corner of your mouth — not kissing you, just torturing you with the idea of it.

You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer without even thinking.

He froze.

Then let out a low laugh that vibrated against your throat.

“There she is,” he murmured. “Knew you missed me.”

You were seconds — inches — from snapping and kissing him first when—

The door jingled.

Two old ladies walked in.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull his hands away.

Didn’t even pretend he wasn’t pressed against you.

They whispered loudly:

“Oh my…”

“She’s got her hands full with that one…”

He smirked against your cheek, voice barely a breath:

“Let ’em talk.”

You elbowed him hard.

He laughed harder.

As you tried to slip past him, he caught your wrist, turning you right back into his chest.

His lips brushed your temple.

“Meet me out back,” he murmured.

“Five minutes. Door locked. No interruptions.”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes — really look — and his voice dropped to that slow, cocky drawl that ruined you every time:

He was trouble the minute he walked into that bar.

You knew it.

Everyone knew it.

Hell, he knew you knew it, and that was half the fun for him.

You were pretending not to watch him — leaning on the counter, nursing a cherry Coke like you weren’t waiting for him to do something stupid — and of course, the bastard did.

He caught your eye across the room.

Smirked.

Slow.

Lazy.

Like he already had you figured out.

You rolled your eyes, but something low in your stomach tightened anyway.

You hated that he could do that with just a look.

He didn’t even hesitate — just walked right toward you, boots heavy on the wood floor, hands shoved in his pockets like he owned the place and knew you’d let him get away with it.

“Thought you weren’t comin’ around here anymore,” you said as he stopped in front of you.

“Thought you didn’t care,” he shot back, eyes flicking down your mouth in a way that made your pulse jump.

You shoved his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t start.”

He leaned in, breath brushing your ear, voice low enough that only you could hear:

“Sweetheart… we always start.”

You swallowed hard.

This was the problem — it never mattered how long you stayed away, how many times you said this is the last time.

He’d show up, look at you like that, and your resolve would crumble like wet paper.

He pulled back just enough to study you, something almost soft flickering through the cocky exterior.

“You gonna tell me whose heart I’m messin’ with tonight?” he asked.

You raised your chin. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you plan on breakin’ it.”

His smirk faltered for just a second — barely there, but you caught it.

He looked away, jaw flexing, then back at you.

“Baby, between the two of us?”

His hand brushed your waist, slow, testing, familiar.

“It’s mine that gets busted up every time.”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer — too close — the kind of close that made your brain stop working entirely.

“You wanna pretend this don’t mean anything?” he murmured.

“Fine. We can pretend.”

His fingers slid around your hip, pulling you just a little closer.

“But you and me both know the second we lock eyes… it’s over.”

Your chest tightened, because he was right.

He was always right about this.

“Shouldn’t do this,” you whispered.

He nodded, forehead nearly touching yours.

“We shouldn’t.”

Neither of you moved.

“You gonna walk away?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t.

He smiled — the small, dangerous one that only ever came out for you — and tilted your chin up with one knuckle.

“That’s what I thought.”

The bar got louder.

The music picked up.

Someone laughed across the room.

But it all went fuzzy around the edges — because he leaned in, breath ghosting your lips, and you felt yourself slipping back into the same gravitational pull that had ruined you both a dozen times.

“You want my heart?” he whispered.

“It’s yours.”

He paused.

“Or…” he swallowed, thumb stroking your jaw,

“…you want yours back?”

Your voice barely came out: “I don’t know.”

His smile was heartbreak and hunger all tangled together.

“Then we’re both screwed,” he murmured,

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

You were halfway through closing down the tiny laundromat you worked at — headphones in, hair tied up, mind finally quiet — when you felt it.

Eyes on you.

Heavy.

Focused.

Familiar.

You turned… and there he was.

Leaned against the doorframe like sin dressed in flannel and attitude.

Hands shoved in his pockets.

Jaw locked.

Eyes burning holes straight through you.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t start,” you breathed.

He didn’t listen.

He never did.

He pushed off the door and walked toward you — slow, deliberate, like every step was a choice he knew he shouldn’t be making.

You crossed your arms. “Thought you left town.”

“Did.”

He stopped right in front of you.

“Didn’t stick.”

You scoffed. “Why not?”

His eyes dragged down your body, up again, landing on your mouth with way too much heat.

“Couldn’t stay gone.”

Your pulse jumped.

You hated him.

And you hated how your body reacted when he looked at you like this — like he’d tear down the world if it meant getting close again.

“You got money now,” you muttered. “Blue strips. A future. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He huffed a humorless laugh.

“Yeah. Thought it would fix me.”

“And did it?”

His gaze sharpened — something dark underneath it.

“No,” he said quietly.

“What I wanted ain’t something cash can buy.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Don’t,” you whispered, stepping back.

He followed.

Always followed.

“Why’re you runnin’?” he murmured.

“Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

His hand came up — slow, cautious — fingers brushing the hem of your shirt like he was remembering the shape of you.

You didn’t move.

His voice dropped lower, raspier.

“You think green paper kept me warm?”

His thumb traced your waist.

“You think money shut you up in my head?”

He leaned in, breath skimming your cheek.

“Damn thing made it worse.”

Your breath trembled.

“Stop,” you whispered. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“You don’t get to walk around lookin’ like this and expect me not to.”

You looked down — bad choice — because his hand slid to your hip, gripping gently but firmly, pulling you the slightest bit closer.

“Look at me,” he said, voice soft but commanding.

You did.

And his eyes…

God, you’d forgotten how devastating they were up close — how they held a whole storm of things he’d never say out loud.

“You think I came back for the money?” he asked, jaw tight.

“I came back ’cause every mile away from you felt wrong.”

Your chest tightened.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

He smiled — that slow, wrecking one — and stepped even closer, bodies nearly touching.

“So are you,” he murmured.

“Least with you I wanna be.”

His forehead brushed yours — not kissing, just hovering on the edge, breath mixing with yours, the kind of closeness that made your whole body heat.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

He waited.

Then leaned in, lips almost touching yours — almost — voice dropping to a growl:

“Say it. Tell me to go.”

You couldn’t.

He smirked — but it wasn’t cocky.

It was relieved.

Hungry.

Almost broken.

“That’s what I thought.”

His hand slid up your back, slow, pulling you flush against him.

Your breath hitched.

His eyes darkened.

“I didn’t come back for money,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

He showed up at the county fair like trouble on legs.

Boots muddy.

Hat tilted low.

That stupid smirk that said he’d already done three things he shouldn’t have today.

Everyone watched him walk in — because of course they did.

He was loud in the way thunderstorms are loud.

Big presence.

Big attitude.

Big… ego.

And you?

You were the sweet one.

The one everyone liked.

The one old ladies at church called “a blessing.”

Which is exactly why every head in a five-mile radius snapped toward you the second he spotted you across the fairgrounds.

He slowed his walk.

Eyes dragging up and down you like he was choosing trouble off a menu.

You rolled your eyes, pretending you didn’t feel your stomach flip like it always did.

He should NOT have that effect on you.

He was a walking red flag.

A bull in human form.

A “if you go near him, your reputation is DONE” kind of boy.

Too bad your heart had the IQ of a potato.

He sauntered up, hands hooked in his belt loops, voice low and dripping with mischief.

“Well hey there, darlin’.”

You crossed your arms.

“Don’t ‘darlin’’ me.”

That smirk sharpened.

“Why not? You look like one.”

You hated that.

You hated he could make you blush with two dumb words.

The worst part?

He knew it.

“All dressed up for the fair, huh?” he teased, leaning down a little. “You come here to ride the ferris wheel… or ride somethin’ else?”

Your jaw dropped.

“Don’t be gross.”

He laughed — one of those low, warm chuckles that made your knees want to do things knees should not do.

“Aw, c’mon. I’m just teasin’ you.”

But that was the problem.

You two had been “just teasing” for months.

Stolen looks.

Flirty remarks.

Him showing up places he definitely didn’t need to be.

And underneath all of it was a tension thick enough to climb like a rope.

He took a step closer — just enough that you could smell cedar and smoke and the kind of cologne that did things to your brain chemistry.

“You wanna go for a ride?” he murmured.

“I’m not getting on your truck.”

“Didn’t say anything about my truck.”

You blinked.

Heat shot to your face.

He grinned like he’d won.

Before you could respond, two older women walked by whispering:

“That’s the cowboy troublemaker.”

“And she’s talkin’ to him? Oh, bless her heart…”

You groaned. He winked.

“They can talk,” he murmured, “but they ain’t the ones I’m invitin’ to climb on behind me.”

“YOU—”

Your voice cracked with embarrassed outrage, which only made him grin harder.

“Relax,” he said softly, stepping even closer, “I meant my horse.”

You were about to snap back when his hand brushed your waist — barely, like he was checking if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

His voice dropped even lower.

“But if your mind went somewhere else…

I ain’t complainin’.”

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head, searching your face with that challenging, amused look he always gave you before pushing a boundary.

“So what d’you say?” he asked. “Wanna take a ride with me?”

And you should’ve said no.

You knew you should’ve.

But when that boy looked at you like that —

like you were the only thing in the world worth chasing —

every good decision you’d ever made evaporated.

You sighed, giving in.

“Fine. One ride.”

His grin went feral.

“Knew you couldn’t resist me, sweetheart.”

You shoved his arm.

“Shut up.”

He tipped his hat down, eyes glinting.

You swore you hated him.

Really, truly hated him.

He had that maddening smirk, that arrogant swagger, that talent for getting under your skin like he was born just to irritate you. He’d show up everywhere—leaning against his truck outside school, cutting in front of you at the diner, whispering snarky comments every time you passed.

And you gave it right back.

You rolled your eyes. You scoffed. You pushed past him like he was nothing but noise.

But God… he made your blood rush.

And he knew it.

He always knew it.

So when he slid into the seat across from you at the bonfire that night, legs spread like the whole world belonged to him, you didn’t walk away. You glared. You held your ground. You waited for him to start something.

He did.

“You look real cute when you’re pretending you don’t stare at me,” he murmured, voice low and smoky.

You nearly threw your drink at him.

Instead, you laughed—mean, sharp, shaking your head. “I don’t stare at you.”

“Baby, you could spot me in a room full of a thousand people.”

His eyes glinted, hungry. “And I’d spot you just as fast.”

You should’ve stood up.

You should’ve shut him down.

But the firelight flickered across his face, catching in his hair, and the world suddenly felt too small, too charged, too alive. You felt that familiar tug—angry, addictive, impossible to shake.

Enemies.

But only because it was safer than admitting what you really wanted.

When you got up to leave, he followed. Of course he did. His boots crunched behind you on the gravel, slow and deliberate, until you felt him close—so close his breath warmed the back of your neck.

“Stop following me,” you snapped.

He chuckled. “Then quit walkin’ away.”

You spun around—and he was right there.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too much.

Your hands found his chest before your brain could catch up. “I can’t stand you,” you whispered.

“Funny,” he breathed, leaning in until his lips brushed your jaw, “’cause I can’t go a single damn day without thinkin’ about you.”

Your pulse jumped.

Your anger melted into heat.

And in that split second, you gave in—again.

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and hunger and months of tension exploding at once. You pulled him closer, fisting his shirt, letting him back you into the side of his truck. He groaned into your lips like he’d been starving for you, hands gripping your waist like he’d finally caught what he’d been chasing.

Enemies?

Not tonight.

He kissed you harder, deeper, dragging his mouth down your neck, and you gasped his name—an admission you’d never say in the daylight.

“See?” he murmured against your skin. “I knew you wanted me.”

You shoved him lightly, breathless. “Shut up.”

He smirked, kissing you again. “Make me.”

And you did.

Over and over.

Because the truth was simple and terrifying:

You went from wanting to strangle him…

to wanting him on you.

To needing him.

To craving the chaos he brought into your life.

He made you crazy.

He made you furious.

He made you feel alive.

And he was yours—

He stood in front of you like a storm rolling in—big, broad, older, sun-browned skin and jaw tight enough to crack. The kind of man everyone in town called trouble. The kind of man your daddy warned you about. The kind who didn’t raise his voice often… but when he did, the whole room held its breath.

But right now, you were the one yelling.

“You’re so damn rude to everyone! You don’t even see it! You just— you treat people like they’re nothing!”

Your voice wavered, but you kept going, anger and hurt tangled together. He didn’t interrupt you—not once. His eyes just tracked every inch of your face, following the tremble in your bottom lip, the way your brows knitted together, the heat in your cheeks.

His breath came heavy, chest rising and falling under a tight, white T-shirt that clung to him from the humidity and the long day’s work. Dirt smudged his forearm. A bit of grease stained his knuckles. He looked furious… but not at you. Never at you.

When your eyes finally glossed over with tears, something in him broke.

And in his head, loud and raw, was the same thought he always choked on:

Why can’t she see it?

I ain’t rude. I ain’t cold. I just don’t know how to be soft with anyone but her.

I love her. Goddamn it, I fucking love her.

Your tears slipped down your cheeks, and the sight of it hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken. He straightened, jaw flexing, and stepped forward without thinking.

You flinched—just slightly.

He froze, breath catching.

Then he moved slower, gentler, like approaching a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. His rough, calloused hand slid to your hip, careful, almost hesitant, guiding you closer until your bodies nearly brushed.

His other hand came up behind your head, big palm warm against your hair, thumb brushing the back of your neck like a secret apology.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, that country drawl softened just for you.

He nudged you back until your spine met the cool metal of his truck. But even then, his touch stayed careful. Like he knew he could break you if he wasn’t gentle.

His lips met yours—not rough like everyone would expect from a man like him—but slow. Tender. Starved. A man who didn’t know how to say what he felt, so he poured it into the kiss instead.

The world around you went quiet except for crickets and the far-off hum of the highway. His hands held you like you were the first good thing he’d ever touched. His eyes fell closed as the kiss deepened, his forehead pressing to yours between breaths.

And in that soft, stolen moment against the truck, everything he couldn’t say out loud finally slipped through:

You’re the only one who gets to see me like this.

I ain’t rude. I’m scared.

It was three in the morning, the world outside quiet and still. You’d just crawled back under the covers, trying to quiet the thoughts that never seemed to stop—the memories of him, of what you had, and what you’d lost. Almost a year had passed since he ended things. A year of holding your breath, of pretending you didn’t want him, of pretending you were fine without him.

And then—there was a sharp knock at your door. One. Two. Three. Your heart stuttered. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not at this hour. Not him.

You opened the door, sleep still heavy in your eyes, and your breath caught. There he stood, silhouetted by the porch light, the same smirk you’d loved and hated all at once, the same reckless energy that had haunted your dreams for months.

Before you could even speak, he was inside, closing the door behind him. His hands found your face, brushing strands of hair behind your ears, and he studied you like he’d been imagining this moment every single night since he left.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “I shouldn’t have walked away. Not like that… not without you.”

You tried to speak, tried to tell him all the hurt you’d swallowed, but the words caught in your throat. He leaned closer, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, and your chest fluttered at the familiar pull.

“I think about you,” he admitted, voice trembling just slightly. “Every day. Every time I see the sunrise, hear a song we used to play, feel the wind—I think of you. I hated being away from you.”

Your hands reached for him before you even realized it, fingers brushing against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat you’d missed more than you could say.

“I… I don’t know if I can just—” you started, voice catching, but he silenced you with a gentle finger on your lips.

“Don’t speak,” he said, leaning close, his forehead against yours. “I just… I needed you to know I came back. I couldn’t stay away anymore. And I’m not leaving again.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, letting the tension build, letting every unspoken word linger in the space between you. His hands trailed down your arms, fingertips grazing your waist, a slow, deliberate dance that set your nerves on fire.

And then, finally, he kissed you. Soft at first, testing, savoring. Then deeper, urgent, desperate—pouring all the months of longing, apology, and regret into that single, stolen moment. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, your body pressed to his, and for a second, the world disappeared.

When he finally broke the kiss, your breaths came in ragged gasps, your foreheads resting together. “Please,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “Stay. Let me make this right. Let me stay.”

You shouldn’t want him.

Every part of your brain screamed it. He was trouble. The kind of trouble that left bruises you couldn’t see and fire in your chest that you couldn’t control. And yet… there he was. Leaning against the side of the barn behind your favorite little diner, arms crossed, that crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The town didn’t need to know about you two. It didn’t need to see the way your fingers brushed together when no one was looking, or the way he lingered in doorways just to watch you walk by. It shouldn’t exist, and that was exactly what made it intoxicating.

You kept things on the low. Silent smiles, fleeting touches, stolen glances across the fair, or late-night rides in his truck when the streets were empty and the world couldn’t judge you. But keeping it hidden only made the pull between you stronger. Every whispered laugh, every accidental brush of your hand against his, every time his voice hit that low, teasing edge—it was a spark you weren’t supposed to feel.

Tonight, the air was heavy with heat and the scent of summer rain. You walked past the edge of the woods near the creek, heart hammering when you saw him waiting, backlit by the fading sunset.

“Thought you’d try to run tonight,” he said, voice low, amused, like he knew you’d be here even before you knew it yourself.

You stiffened, but didn’t step away. “Don’t start,” you warned, though your pulse betrayed you.

“Or what?” He took a step closer, eyes locked on yours, the world around you dissolving into the hum of crickets and whispering trees. “You gonna tell me off? Or you gonna give me what I’ve been waiting for?”

You shook your head, laughing softly despite the way your chest was tightening. “You shouldn’t exist in my life like this,” you murmured. “You’re… too much.”

He smirked, closing the distance until the space between you vanished. “Too much? Baby, that’s exactly why you want me.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe you did want him. Every risky smile, every forbidden touch, every stolen moment—it had all led to this. Your fingers brushed his jaw, tracing the curve that made your heart ache, and he leaned down just enough that your breaths collided.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel like home and fire all at once. But as your lips met in a quick, stolen kiss, the world disappeared. Crickets sang around you. Shadows stretched across the trees. And in that moment, nothing else mattered but the secret, dangerous pull you couldn’t—and didn’t want to—resist.

You pulled back slightly, breathing heavy, and he whispered just for you:

“Don’t fight it, baby. The more we hide, the more we crave it.”

The morning started like any other in your little town—sunlight spilling across Main Street, the smell of fresh pies drifting from the bakery, neighbors bustling about setting up stalls for the annual fair. You moved through the crowd with that easy, radiant energy everyone seemed to notice—laughing with friends, waving at familiar faces, the kind of presence that made the day feel lighter.

And then he appeared.

Leaning casually against a fence near the main stage, one hand shoved in his pocket, that signature crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kind of look that made you simultaneously want to roll your eyes and melt into a puddle. Your eyes met for a split second, and the flutter in your stomach was instant. He tipped his head just slightly, smirk widening, and you quickly turned away, trying to act indifferent—but failing miserably.

All day, it was the same. At the pie-eating contest, he lingered on the outskirts of the crowd, smirking every time your laugh carried past him. At the ring toss, your hands brushed ever so slightly, and the electricity between you made it impossible to focus. Whispers floated around the fair: “Look at them.” “Knew they’d end up together.” And he caught every word, using it to fuel that reckless, daring energy he seemed to radiate.

By late afternoon, the teasing had become almost unbearable. Every glance you threw felt like a challenge; every smile he returned carried the promise of something more. You found yourselves circling each other through the crowd, small interactions—his fingers brushing yours, shared laughter over a clumsy carnival game—building tension like it was taut wire ready to snap.

Finally, the moment arrived. The golden light of sunset bathed the fairgrounds in honeyed hues. You were helping with the dunk tank when you felt him approach, heat of his body close enough to make your pulse spike.

“Bet you’ve been thinking about me all day,” he murmured, leaning close enough that you could feel the brush of his lips in the air.

You stiffened, laughing to hide the flutter in your chest. “Keep dreaming, rebel.”

He smirked, hands brushing lightly against your waist. And then—without warning—he kissed you. Bold, confident, and impossibly thrilling. Gasps rose from the nearby crowd, phones snapped into position, and whispers swirled around you, but it didn’t matter. The world shrank until it was just him and you.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, voice low and teasing:

“Let ’em talk. They don’t get this.”

Dudes who post u on their socials to show you off are soooo hot!!!

Sooo.. That brings me to —Your fingers kept scrolling, aimless and restless, that soft ache settling in your chest the way it always did when you missed him too much to think straight. Then the screen shifted, and you froze.

A video.

His truck.

Someone stretched across the hood—you—one leg propped up lazily, hotty-hot shorts hugging your thighs, wearing a shirt with his initials half-faded across the front. Moonlight draped over the scene like it was staged.

The clips cut on the beat of the audio:

— you throwing it back on him in the passenger seat, his hands gripping your hips

— his mouth on yours, soft then desperate

— you laughing with his younger cousins, letting them tackle you to the floor

— that moment in the dead of winter when you ran straight into his arms in nothing but underwear and a hoodie, snowflakes catching in your hair

By the time the video ended, your stomach was a mess of warmth and nostalgia. You liked it. Favourited it. Reposted it. You were already typing a comment before the notifications hit you—dozens of thirsty replies flooding his notes:

“damn they fine as hell”

“bro i’d risk it all”

“watch out, king 👀”

“they a keeper fr”

And right beneath every single one was him, clapping back with the pettiest, smuggest remarks imaginable.

Someone write something like:

“that ass is THICC!!!”?

He would answer with something like:

“sits on my face every time it gets to.”

Just to piss them off. Just to remind everyone exactly who you belonged to.

You snorted, liking each of his replies one by one.

Then you backed out of the comments and caught the description at the top:

“they have me hypnotized.”

You barely had time to smile before your phone buzzed

“You enjoy it, baby?”

The thought of you and him being parked out in the middle of nowhere while making out at night.

The truck rolls to a stop, the gravel crunching under the tires like the world itself is sighing in anticipation. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your thighs, warm and firm, and in one fluid motion, he pulls you over the clutch, settling you onto his lap. The engine hum dies into silence, replaced by the faint rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of your racing heart.

His lips descend on yours, slow at first, teasing, tasting, claiming. Tongue meets tongue with a practiced hunger, and you feel the deliberate weight of his hands on your body—your waist, your hips, the small dip above your thigh—like he’s memorizing every curve. The night presses in around you: crickets chatter in the shadows, frogs croak from the nearby creek, and the moon hangs heavy and full, casting silver light that outlines the sharp angles of his jaw, the glint of desire in his eyes.

Every touch is an unspoken claim. A fleeting glance down your chest mid-conversation, the ghost of a smack on your ass that leaves warmth lingering on your skin, subtle marks of ownership that only you two understand.

He lifts your shirt slowly, his hands lingering over the soft swell of your stomach, and you arch back, breath hitching, a soft, ragged sound escaping your lips. The air tastes electric—metallic and sweet—the scent of him heavy around you, mingling with the faint earthiness of the night. The moonlight paints him in silver and shadow, highlighting the heat in his eyes, the raw hunger that’s as much about possession as it is desire.