THE SUNLIGHT streaming through your window felt too bright, too cheerful, for the storm raging in your head. You blinked awake, your body stiff and your mind still reeling from the chaos of the night before.

For a moment, you almost convinced yourself it had all been a nightmare—Matt, the chase, the alley, the confession.

But the ache in your muscles and the faint smell of burnt rubber clinging to your clothes told you otherwise.

You groaned, dragging yourself out of bed. The clock on your nightstand read 7:15 a.m. School. Right.

Because the world didn't stop just because your life was falling apart.

You shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. The reflection staring back at you looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes and your hair a tangled mess.

You tried to brush it out, but your hands were still trembling slightly, the adrenaline from last night lingering like a bad hangover.

By the time you made it downstairs, your mom was already in the kitchen, humming to herself as she poured coffee.

Your mother's gaze flickered over you, the warmth in her expression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Her lips pursed, disapproval evident in the sharp downturn of her mouth.

"You look like hell," she said bluntly, her voice clipped.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shrink under her scrutiny. "Good morning to you too," you muttered, moving toward the fridge.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Don't get smart with me." She took a sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving you. "Were you out late again? Sneaking around with that boy?"

You stiffened, fingers tightening around the carton of juice you'd just grabbed. "I wasn't sneaking around with anyone."

Your mother scoffed, setting her mug down with a little too much force. "Please. I wasn't born yesterday." She eyed the bruises on your arms, the faint redness on your cheek where Marissa had slapped you.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're making a fool of yourself. Running around after some delinquent who's only going to drag you down."

You clenched your jaw, the familiar anger simmering beneath your skin. "You don't know him," you said quietly.

"And you do?" she shot back, eyebrows raising. "You think you're special? That you're the one who's going to fix him?"

Your silence must have been answer enough because she let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Pathetic."

The word hit like a slap, but you refused to flinch. You were used to this by now.

"If you keep this up," she continued, voice dripping with condescension, "you're going to end up just like him. A waste of potential. A disappointment."

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself before turning away. "I'm going to get ready for school."

"Make sure you don't embarrass yourself any more than you already have," she called after you as you climbed the stairs.

You slammed your door behind you, your hands gripping the fabric of your t-shirt as you tried to shake off the weight of her words.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your fingers hovering over the fabric of your skirt, your mind still tangled in the events of last night.

Matt. The way your heart had pounded when his fingers brushed against yours, when he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him.

With a deep breath, you shook off the weight pressing on your chest and grabbed the skirt from the pile.

It was black, pleated, falling just mid-thigh—shorter than you usually wore, but something about today made you want to wear it anyway.

Maybe it was defiance.

Maybe it was because of Matt.

You pulled it on, the fabric cool against your skin, and paired it with a fitted black long-sleeve top, one that hugged you in all the right places.

As you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, your eyes flickered to the pink headband on your dresser.

You hesitated.

Then Matt's voice whispered through your memory, low and certain.

"You look better without it."

Your fingers hovered over it for a second longer before you turned away.

No headband today.

Grabbing your bag, you headed downstairs and stepped out onto the porch, where Matt was already waiting.

He leaned lazily against the railing, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, his dark hair a little messier than usual. His gaze lifted the second he heard you, and for a moment, he just... stared.

His eyes dragged over you, slow, lingering—his gaze catching on your skirt, then drifting up to your top, then finally, finally meeting your eyes.

"No headband, huh?" His voice was different this time. Lower.

You shifted on your feet, crossing your arms. "Are you really starting with that?"

Matt smirked, but there was something else beneath it. Something softer. "Just saying. Told you."

You raised an eyebrow. "Told me what?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his fingers barely brushing against yours before wrapping around them. His thumb dragged over your knuckles, slow, deliberate.

"That you look better without it."

Your breath caught, pulse jumping at the way he was looking at you. Like you were something worth staring at.

"Shut up, Matt," you muttered, but there was no real heat behind your words.

His smirk deepened, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. "Never."

The two of you walked toward the bus stop, his hand still in yours, fingers warm and firm.

Every so often, his shoulder bumped against yours, but neither of you moved away.

Then the bus pulled up.

Matt took a step forward, but just as the doors opened, he stilled.

You barely had time to process it before your stomach twisted.

Marissa.

She was already inside, sitting near the front, legs crossed in a way that looked effortless. She wore an ivory cropped sweater that clung to her slender frame, her pleated black skirt riding just high enough to make a statement.

Her nails, painted a sharp crimson red, tapped idly against the armrest. Her glossy waves framed her face perfectly, not a strand out of place.

She wasn't glaring. Wasn't scowling.

She was just watching.

Watching the way Matt's fingers curled around yours.

His entire body went rigid beside you, his grip tightening just slightly, like he had forgotten to breathe.

You started to pull your hand away, to give him the space he seemed to need, but before you could, Matt moved.

He turned toward you.

And then, deliberately, achingly slow, his fingers brushed your cheek, trailing down until he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch lingered—long enough that your breath hitched, long enough that you knew Marissa was still watching.

But Matt didn't look at her.

He looked at you.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers skimmed the side of your face, warm, rough, sending a shiver down your spine. He didn't look at Marissa. Didn't acknowledge her at all.

Just you.

Your pulse pounded as his hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before trailing back down, his fingers grazing your jaw before slipping back into yours. His grip was firmer now.

Like he was choosing.

Then, without another word, he took your hand again and led you onto the bus.

Your heart pounded as you slid into your seat near the back, but Matt didn't sit beside you.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, voice rough.

You swallowed and nodded, watching as he walked toward Marissa.

The air between them was thick, heavy.

Marissa didn't say anything at first. She just let him sit beside her, let the silence stretch long enough to make a point. Then, finally, she turned her head slightly, voice smooth and unimpressed.

"You don't waste time, do you?"

Matt exhaled sharply. "You knew what this was."

She scoffed. "Did I? Because last I checked, you didn't exactly end things."

His jaw clenched. "You ended it when you put your hands on her."

Marissa let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right. That's what ended it. Not the fact that you were only with me because my dad is the sheriff and I needed you for...drugs."

Matt's fingers flexed, his posture still rigid. "I never lied to you."

"No," she mused, eyes flashing. "You just let me believe you actually gave a shit."

Matt was quiet for a second. Then—"You got what you wanted."

Marissa hummed, tilting her head. "Did I?"

A beat of silence.

Then she leaned in, her voice lower, sharper. "All I want is you Matt, so tell me, you really think this is going to end well? For either of you?"

Matt didn't blink. "I don't care how it ends. I'm hers now."

Marissa studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she spoke. "You should care."

She stood, walking down the aisle without so much as a glance in your direction.

Matt didn't watch her leave.

Instead, he let out a slow breath, ran a hand down his face, and then turned back toward you.

The second he sat beside you, you felt the tension still coiled inside him, radiating off him like heat. His fingers flexed, like he was resisting the urge to clench them into fists. His jaw was tight, his breathing uneven.

He didn't say anything.

Neither did you.

But then his hand found yours again, gripping tighter than before.

Like he needed the weight of you, the warmth of you, to keep himself steady.

Like he was afraid to let go.

And this time, you squeezed back.

Matt's head turned, his dark eyes flickering toward you. His gaze was still sharp, still stormy, but beneath all that tension, there was something softer. Something hesitant.

You didn't let go.

Neither did he.

Instead, his grip only tightened as the bus pulled away from the curb. The world outside blurred past, but you could feel the weight of it all pressing between you—the history, the choices, the things left unsaid.

Then, suddenly, Matt shifted closer.

His shoulder pressed against yours, his body warm, solid, his presence suffocating in the best way. His breath fanned against your cheek, and you realized just how close he was. His voice, when it came, was low. Rough.

"Me and Marissa? We're done. For good. I promise you. I'm yours now."

Your breath hitched, your pulse stuttering.

There it was. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just certainty.

Matt never said anything he didn't mean.

Your fingers curled against his. Your heart was hammering now, but it wasn't nerves, not entirely. It was something deeper. Something that had been growing for longer than you wanted to admit.

Your throat felt tight, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. "Matt."

Matt exhaled, his hand tightening around yours, his grip unrelenting. His eyes searched your face, waiting for something—anything. Like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous, something unknown, and he needed you to pull him the rest of the way.

Your heart pounded.

And then, softly, barely more than a breath, you said it.

Your name.

Matt blinked. His lips parted slightly, his entire body stilling like he wasn't sure he'd heard you right.

"What?" His voice was different now—rough, unsure. Like the word had knocked the air right out of him.

You swallowed and said it again, firmer this time. Your name. "That's my name"

His chest rose sharply, his fingers twitching in yours. You could feel the tension rolling off him, the slow realization settling in his features.

For the first time, you had given him something no one else had.

Something that was only his.

Matt inhaled, something raw flickering in his eyes. Then, slowly, he whispered it back to you.

And that was it.

You barely had time to process the way your name sounded on his lips before his hand was in your hair, yanking you toward him, his mouth crashing against yours.

The first kiss was rough, searing, like he had been holding himself back for too long and finally lost control. His fingers dug into your waist, gripping tight, pulling you against him like he needed to feel every inch of you.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, clinging, desperate. His mouth was hot against yours, his breath ragged as he kissed you like he was trying to make up for every second he hadn't.

He pulled back just enough to let you gasp, but he didn't let go, didn't give you a chance to think before his lips were on yours again—harder this time, deeper, his hand slipping from your hair to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb dragging over your jaw.

You whimpered against his mouth, and that was all it took to undo him.

Matt groaned, low and rough, before tilting your chin up and kissing you harder, his teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you shudder. His other hand slid down, fingers pressing into your thigh where your skirt had ridden up, his touch burning through the fabric.

Everything outside the two of you ceased to exist. The bus, the people, the past, the future—none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the way Matt was holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

The way his breath hitched when your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl against your lips.

The way he whispered your name again between kisses, like he was trying to memorize the way it felt on his tongue.

You didn't know how long it lasted, how long you stayed tangled in each other, drowning in everything that had been building between you for so long.

But you knew one thing for sure.

Matt wasn't letting go.

And neither were you.

Matt's breath was ragged against your lips, his grip on you impossibly tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, his thumb pressing into your skin like he was trying to ground himself, to prove to himself that you were real. That this was real.

You barely had time to think before he pulled you even closer, his other hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, gripping it just enough to send a shiver down your spine. His lips moved against yours like he couldn't get enough, like he was starved, like he'd been waiting for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You felt it.

In the way his teeth scraped against your bottom lip, the way he groaned low in his throat when your nails scratched lightly against the back of his neck.

In the way he whispered your name between kisses, like he was claiming it. Like he was claiming you.

The bus jolted slightly, the movement breaking you apart just enough to gasp for air. But Matt didn't pull away. He stayed close, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing unsteady. His fingers still tangled in your hair, his other hand still gripping your thigh.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your lips swollen, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Matt swallowed hard, his grip tightening for a second before he exhaled, his voice rough and low.

"Say it again."

Your stomach flipped.

You knew what he meant.

Your fingers curled around the front of his hoodie, holding him there as you whispered your name again, softer this time, just for him.

Matt let out a slow, shaky breath, his eyes dark and unreadable as they flickered over your face, down to your lips, then back up.

Then, suddenly, his mouth was on yours again.

This kiss was different.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like now that he had you, now that you'd given him this, he wasn't going to waste a second of it.

His tongue slid against yours, deliberate and teasing, like he wanted to unravel you piece by piece. His fingers moved—trailing from your hair down your neck, down your arm, slipping under the hem of your sweater to brush against your waist. His touch was hot, possessive, like he needed you closer.

Your breath hitched, your body arching slightly against his, and Matt made a sound low in his throat, something raw and desperate. His fingers curled tighter against your skin.

Suddenly

A voice. Loud.

Someone clearing their throat.

You barely had time to process it before Matt was pulling back, his entire body tensing, his jaw clenched tight. He turned his head just slightly, eyes dark and sharp as they flicked toward the source of the interruption.

An older woman sat a few seats across from you, arms crossed, her mouth pursed in disapproval.

"Some of us are trying to exist here," she muttered.

Your face went hot, your breath still coming in short gasps. You weren't sure if it was from the embarrassment or from the fact that Matt still hadn't let go of you.

He didn't move.

Didn't pull away.

Didn't even flinch.

Instead, he let out a slow exhale, his fingers flexing against your waist, before finally dragging his gaze back to you.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're trouble," he murmured your name, voice husky and with a tone of relief. finally, he could call you by your name.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You kissed me, Matt."

His smirk deepened, eyes flickering down to your lips before locking on yours again. "Yeah," he said, voice low and teasing. "And?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was lost when you were still breathless, your lips still tingling from his. "I really liked it" you whispered.

Matt chuckled under his breath before finally—finally—releasing you. His fingers lingered against your waist before slipping away, and even though your body was still thrumming from the heat of his touch, you already missed it.

The tension between you hadn't faded. If anything, it had thickened, settling into something heavier, something undeniable.

And Matt?

Matt just sat back, arms stretching lazily across the back of the seat, his smirk still playing at his lips.

Like he hadn't just kissed you breathless.

Like he wasn't already planning on doing it again.

The rest of the bus ride stretched out between you like a live wire—charged, humming with something unsaid but undeniable.

Matt hadn't stopped looking at you.

Even as he leaned back in his seat, arms stretched lazily along the top, his fingers occasionally drumming against the worn fabric. Even as the city blurred past the windows, even when the bus lurched slightly over a pothole, making your knee bump against his—he didn't look away.

And neither did you.

Your skin still burned where he had touched you, the ghost of his lips still lingering against yours. You could still hear his voice, rough and raw, whispering your name like it meant something.

And maybe it did.

Maybe it always had.

You shifted slightly, trying to focus on anything other than the way Matt's eyes flickered down to your legs, how your skirt had ridden up just slightly when you had moved.

His jaw tensed.

You exhaled, crossing your arms, tilting your head toward him. "You're staring."

Matt didn't even pretend to deny it. His smirk curled, slow and lazy, dark eyes dragging back up to yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "I am."

Heat curled in your stomach, but you rolled your eyes, looking away—because if you didn't, you weren't sure what you would do.

But Matt wasn't done with you.

A second later, you felt his fingers brush against yours, slow and teasing, before slipping beneath your