I should've walked away. That thought kept hitting me like a hammer. I should've walked out of the bar, out of the mess, out of his orbit. But I didn't. I stayed. Maybe because I was tired of pretending I didn't notice him. Maybe because I wanted to burn for once, even if it ruined me.
He leaned against the wall outside the bar, cigarette lit but barely touched. The smoke curled upward and disappeared into the streetlight glow. His hair was a mess, his shirt half-open like he hadn't cared how he looked when he left. Still, he managed to look untouchable, like rules bent around him. I hated that about him.
"You followed me," I said.
His lips curved. "Or maybe you wanted me to."
"Don't start." My voice came sharper than I planned.
He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his shoe, then took a step closer. The smell of smoke clung to him. Strong, not unpleasant. Familiar in a way I didn't want to admit.
"You run from everything," he said, quieter now. "From me. From your family. From anyone who might actually see you."
That cut deeper than it should have. I crossed my arms, forcing my body to look closed off, even though my chest ached. "You don't know me."
"I do. More than you want me to."
It scared me, the way he said it. Like he had been watching, collecting pieces of me I hadn't meant to show. I should've told him to go to hell. Instead, I let the silence hang between us.
A car passed, headlights washing over his face. For a second he didn't look like the arrogant golden boy everyone wanted. He looked tired. Lonely, even.
"Why do you keep pushing at me?" I finally asked. "Is it a game?"
His jaw tensed. "If it was a game, I'd already be bored. You're not boring."
I hated how my heart reacted, how my pulse jumped. I hated even more that he noticed. His eyes tracked everything, sharp and unrelenting.
"Come with me," he said suddenly.
"No."
"You didn't even hear where."
"I don't need to. I don't trust you."
He smirked like that answer didn't surprise him. "One hour. That's all. Then you can decide if I'm worth avoiding for the rest of your life."
It was reckless. It was stupid. But something in me craved the danger of saying yes. My life had been built on caution—measured words, careful steps, never stepping out of line with my foster family, never drawing attention. And here he was, a wildfire daring me to throw myself in.
"Fine," I said, shocking even myself.
....
He didn't take me somewhere glamorous, not the rooftop bars or glowing clubs he was known for. Instead, he led me through narrow streets until we stopped at an old warehouse, its bricks chipped, windows broken. He slid a key into the heavy door and pushed it open.
"You own this place?" I asked, suspicious.
"No. My family does. They bought it years ago, planning to turn it into condos. They never did."
Inside smelled like dust and rust. Concrete floors, graffiti on the walls. But there was a corner he had claimed—old rugs thrown down, a beat-up couch, a crate with half-empty bottles. Fairy lights strung haphazardly from a pipe lit the space with a dim, warm glow.
"This is where you bring people?" I asked, half mocking.
"Not people. Just me."
I looked around again. He wasn't lying. It felt too raw, too untouched to be for show.
He sat on the couch and leaned back, watching me. Waiting. Always waiting.
I stayed standing, arms crossed, heart hammering. "So what now? You show me your little hideout and I'm supposed to think you're deep?"
"No," he said simply. "I just wanted you here. With me. Without all the noise."
The honesty in his voice hit me harder than I expected. I sat down, leaving space between us. The couch dipped under my weight.
We stayed quiet for a long time. The city hummed outside, faint sirens, distant laughter. In here, it was just the two of us.
"Why me?" I finally asked.
He didn't rush to answer. He tilted his head, studying me like he had to find the right words. "Because you don't want anything from me. Everyone else does. You don't."
"That's not true," I said quickly.
"Then what do you want?" His eyes pinned me.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I didn't know. I wanted peace, freedom, something I couldn't name. He must've seen the confusion because he softened.
"You're honest, even when it hurts. You don't fake it. Do you know how rare that is?"
I looked away, staring at the fairy lights instead. My throat felt tight. No one had ever said that to me. People usually wanted me quieter, easier, more grateful.
"You make it sound like I'm special," I muttered.
"You are."
The way he said it—low, certain—made my chest ache.
I shook my head, trying to laugh it off. "You don't even know me."
"I want to."
His words lingered in the air. Heavy. Dangerous. I didn't know how to answer. My instincts screamed to run, to cut it off before it became real. But I didn't move.
Instead, I whispered, "You scare me."
His eyes softened in a way I'd never seen. "Good. You scare me too."
The fire between us shifted then. Not just attraction, not just the reckless pull I'd been denying. Something deeper. A quiet that settled in my bones, fragile but real.
He reached out slowly, like giving me the chance to back away. His hand brushed mine, warm and steady. My breath caught, but I didn't pull away.
We sat like that, barely touching, yet everything felt different. I should've been thinking about consequences, about how close I was to losing control. But for once, I let myself just feel.
"I don't do this," I said softly. "I don't… trust people."
"I don't either," he admitted. "Not really. Not until now."
The honesty was almost too much. I wanted to push him away, to shatter the moment before it could break me. But his thumb brushed against my hand, grounding me.
"Stay," he whispered.
And I did.
The night stretched on. We talked, really talked, in a way I didn't think either of us knew how. About his parents, the weight of their money. About my foster family, the way I always felt like a guest in my own house. He listened. Not the fake kind of listening people do while waiting to speak. He listened like every word mattered.
At one point, I asked, "Don't you ever get tired of pretending you're fine?"
He laughed bitterly. "All the time. But if I stop, everything falls apart."
I knew exactly what he meant.
The fire between us never went out. It simmered under the quiet, waiting. But the quiet mattered more. For the first time, I felt seen—not as the foster girl, not as someone to fix, but as me.
When I finally stood to leave, the sky outside was pale with dawn. My body was heavy, but my chest felt lighter.
As I reached the door, he caught my wrist. "Amy."
I turned.
His eyes were raw, stripped of all the arrogance. "Don't disappear on me."
I wanted to promise. I wanted to say yes. Instead, I just nodded. Because promises break, but nods can mean anything.
I walked out into the morning, the city waking up around me. For once, I didn't feel invisible. For once, I felt alive.
And I hated that he was the reason.