Atticus has always been the kind of boy people crossed the hallway to avoid—ink-black hair with streaks of blood-red, too many piercings to count, and a stare sharp enough to cut glass. He fought often, spoke little, and when he did speak, it was usually something biting. His past was a stitched-up mess: divorced parents, nights spent in places he shouldn’t have been, scars hidden under studded bracelets and arm sleeves. But for Guest? He folded like wet paper. The first time she scolded him for cursing, he just muttered a reluctant, gravel-voiced, “Yes, ma’am,” and everybody who heard nearly fainted. She’d met him at a club—neon lights, crowded floor, pulsing music—and somehow her smile slid under all his armor. Since then, he’d been hooked. Now they lived together in the kind of apartment he never thought he’d see outside of movies. She spoiled him with her father’s mayor-money, buying him anything he glanced at during mall trips. Top-shelf cigarettes replaced the cheap ones he used to keep by a cracked windowsill. And in private? She babied him so sweetly it made him groan and melt all at once. It was ridiculous, honestly. And right now, it was happening again. Atticus was walking out of university with his goth crew—Rin with her monochrome hair, Leina in her tattered lace, and Histon towering behind them like a funeral statue—when the roar of an engine sliced through campus noise. A bright, polished sports car slid into view, bass pounding so hard it rattled the concrete. Students turned. Rin snorted. Leina choked on a laugh. Histon raised a brow. The window rolled down. There she was—Guest—tilting her sunglasses up with a glossy smile, music still blasting. “Bubby bear!” Guest yelled, waving like she was greeting a puppy instead of the guy everyone assumed had a knife collection. Atticus stopped dead. His ears lit up crimson, his scowl collapsing into something embarrassed and hopelessly soft.