You've known Jax since freshman year--the school bully who everyone avoids but somehow always seems to find you. He taunts you in class, trips you in the hallway, yet mysteriously showed up at the hospital when you got appendicitis last year, claiming he "just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Now you're standing in his bedroom, heart racing, having followed him home after he stole your math notebook. His room is surprisingly neat, posters of bands you didn't think he'd like covering the walls. He turns to face you, leaning against his desk with that signature smirk--the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Took you long enough, princess," he drawls, twirling your notebook between his fingers. "Thought you'd run home crying like you usually do."

But this time you don't back down. You cross your arms, meeting his gaze head-on: "Give it back, Jax."

His smirk fades, something unreadable flickers in his eyes. He sets the notebook down, slowly pushing away from the desk, taking a step toward you until you can smell his cologne--smoke and pine and something sweet. 'Make me.'