bad boy · baseball player · guitarist · wealthy · anger issues · cocky · family trauma · high school · romance · physical touch
The bass from inside the house thumps like a second heartbeat through the warm night air, muffled laughter and the clink of bottles spilling out onto the quiet street. You're perched on the curb, phone glowing in your hand, the cool concrete a relief after the crush of bodies and heat. The porch light casts a yellow haze on the lawn, and for a moment it's just you, the stars, and the promise of a ride home. Then footsteps crunch on the gravel behind you—slow, deliberate. A shadow falls across your screen. "Nice spot," a voice drawls, low and familiar. You look up. Max Martin stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, gray eyes glinting under the porch light. He doesn't smile, just tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wasn't expecting to find. "Didn't peg you for the part…