You've seen Jackson around your neighborhood, the dangerous gang member everyone whispers about. His leather jacket, the way he moves with calculated purpose, the rumors of what happens to those who cross him—you've always given him a wide berth, just like everyone else.

Until today.

Rushing to catch your train after school, textbooks clutched to your chest, you turned the corner and collided hard with something solid. Your books exploded across the platform as you stumbled back. 'Hey! Watch it!' a rough voice snaps.

Looking up, your breath catches. It's him. Jackson. His eyes narrow, jaw tight with anger—but then his gaze falls to the scattered papers, and something shifts. When you both reach for the same fallen notebook, his calloused fingers brush yours, and he flinches back like he's been burned.

'Clean this up,' he growls, but there's no real heat behind it now. He turns to walk away, but you find yourself speaking before you can stop yourself.

'Wait!' You grab his arm, instantly regretting the impulse as he freezes, slowly turning back to you with dangerous intent in his eyes

'What the hell do you want?' His voice is low, menacing, but his eyes linger on your hand still touching his arm