DISCLAIMER BEFORE YOU READ THIS STORY:

Hi there! Before you dive in, I want to share a few important things.

This story follows the popular—and often overused—"bad boy/good girl" trope. I originally wrote it back in 2012, during my final year of high school when I was dealing with family issues and anxiety. Writing this story was my way of coping and escaping reality. After publishing a few chapters and receiving great feedback, I kept writing dramatic scenes to please my readers and continue living in that fantasy.

At the time, I was also influenced by many Wattpad and FictionPress stories that portrayed obviously abusive relationships as romantic. I bought into that fantasy quickly—so much so that, by the time I finished high school, I believed that was what all great love stories were supposed to look like.

To be honest, there are MANY problematic elements in this story. I inaccurately portrayed a character labeled "bipolar" who clearly isn't (and I changed to a General Anxiety Disorder - which I personally have), and the cancer storyline is also not accurate. I should have done more research, but I was writing primarily for escapism.

If you decide to read this story, please keep in mind that this romance is NOT an example of a healthy relationship. I now understand what a healthy relationship looks and feels like. While I'm still working through my own mental health journey, I'm grateful to say I no longer write about boys who hurt people and then kiss the girl afterward.

Thanks for reading with an open mind!

ONE - The Troublemaker

"What's up with you?" asked Macie, peering into my locker, where my head was currently buried.

Yes, literally buried. Forehead pressed to the cool metal, eyes shut, pretending I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"TIRED," I groaned into the echo chamber of rust and dust. "My boss called me in for a late shift. Again. That bowling alley is slowly eating my soul."

"Sounds like a personal crisis," Lola said behind me. "You dying or just being dramatic?"

I sighed and peeled myself from the locker, blinking into the fluorescent buzz of reality. My reflection in the dented locker mirror confirmed the worst: eyeliner smudged like war paint, messy hair spilling out of my bun like I'd survived a wind tunnel, and my glasses slightly crooked on my nose. I looked like a sleep-deprived librarian with a grudge.

"My God," I whispered. "I've become the raccoon from your nightmares."

Lola crouched with a smile, rummaging in her Mary Poppins-sized tote and pulling out a makeup wipe. "You're lucky I love you."

She dabbed at my under-eye smudges while Macie, looking impossibly bouncy and fresh-faced with her red ponytail and sunshine smile, frowned sympathetically.

"You've got to stop running yourself into the ground," Macie said gently. "It's not all on you, Kat."

"It kind of is," I muttered.

My chest tightened, the guilt sitting there like a stone. "Mom found another lump last week. She hasn't told me the results yet, but... she's worried. So, I'm worried."

Their smiles faltered. Lola's hand paused mid-swipe.

"Breast cancer?" she asked softly.

I nodded.

The truth of it still felt like a loose thread I didn't dare pull.

"She said it's probably nothing," I added quickly. "But she's tired all the time. I can see it in her face. So yeah, work and school—it's on me right now."

"You're not alone, Kat," Macie said. "You have us."

"And you have me," Lola added. "And concealer."

I smiled. A weak one. But still.

"Thanks," I said as Lola gave my eyeliner a final flick. "Do I look less dead?"

"Zombie chic," she said. "It's a vibe."

The bell rang, and we all groaned. Lola and Macie headed toward math. I trudged toward English—with him.

Jayden Miller.

Golden boy, star athlete, blonde hair, blue eyes, best friend since seventh grade, and the literal worst person to have a crush on. Especially when said crush is very much unreciprocated.

I found him by his locker, sunglasses on like some discount celebrity.

"It's November," I deadpanned. "We're not in L.A."

"They look good on me."

I crossed my arms. "Take them off."

He smirked, but pulled them down.

"Jesus, Jayden!" I gasped. His right eye was a mess—black and swollen.

"Basketball," he said.

"Try again."

"Why do you always assume I started something?"

"Because you always do."

He laughed, then slung an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward class.

"You're gonna be the death of me," I grumbled.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Lunch Time

"Basketball, my ass," Lola muttered, stealing a fry off my tray. "He totally got into a fight."

I sipped my iced tea. "He wouldn't tell me what happened. And he dipped after math—like I wouldn't notice."

"Why do you care?" Macie asked. "He's a jock. And he has Amy the cheer-bot."

"Because we're friends," I said. "Best friends."

"Sure," Lola drawled. "And if he magically dumped Amy, you wouldn't suddenly 'trip' and land mouth-first on his face?"

I choked on a fry.

"Oh my God," Macie gasped. "You like him."

Lola grinned wickedly. "She's had a crush on him since detention in seventh grade."

I waved a fry like a white flag. "Can we not do this? It's ancient history."

"It's adorable," Macie said, swooning. "Best friends to lovers!"

"It's over," I snapped. "He's with Amy. End of story."

History Class

I barely made it through lecture before gravity claimed me and my face met desk.

"KATHERINE CHASE!"

I jerked awake.

Mrs. Dallas loomed over me with a detention slip already filled out.

"Really?" I muttered. "For napping?"

"Third offence. You know the rules."

After School — Detention

I trudged down the hall, doing my best to avoid Macie, Lola, or Jayden. They couldn't know. If they found out, they'd worry. And then tell Mom. Which was worse.

Inside the classroom, Mrs. Jones raised her eyebrows as I handed her the slip.

"Katherine Chase? In detention?"

"I know," I sighed.

"Sit next to Mr. Blake."

I looked toward the far corner of the room and saw him—Wesley Blake.

Alone. Hoodie half-zipped. Red headphones around his neck. Short dark brown hair, lean build, sharp jawline, and piercing grey eyes that held exactly zero warmth.

Wesley was... a mystery. The loner. The guy who didn't talk to anyone and didn't seem to care. Rumors clung to him like fog. Fights, trouble, isolation. But I didn't believe in rumors. Everyone has a story. Even him.

I sat beside him, quietly pulling my sleeves over my hands.

Mrs. Jones glanced at the clock. "Back in thirty minutes. Kat, make sure he stays put."

As soon as the door clicked shut, Wesley spoke. "If I leave... would you stop me?"

I flinched slightly at the sound of his voice—low, rough, a little cocky.

"I... I can't stop you," I said honestly, eyes still fixed forward.

"What, you scared of me?"

I turned to face him. "Why would I be scared of someone I don't even know?"

That got his attention. For the first time, he actually looked at me. Those grey eyes locked on mine, and suddenly the air between us felt heavier.

His gaze flicked to my hoodie. "Nice sweater. Yours?"

I smirked. "It's mine now."

"Fair enough."

I pulled my hood up and slumped into my desk. "Anyway, I'm trying to nap."

But then came the tapping. Pencil-on-desk. Again and again.

"Hey," I said, annoyed. "Can you not?"

He grinned. "Can't hear you."

I groaned. He kept going. I snapped. I grabbed the pencils and chucked them across the room.

"Pick them up," he said, voice suddenly serious.

"Make me."

He leaned in again. Closer. And suddenly, there was no desk between us. Just heat. Tension. A heartbeat I was sure he could hear.

"I could," he whispered. "But you might like it too much."

My pulse stuttered. "Try me."

"Look, you might not be scared of me," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "but I can make you scared."

His breath brushed my cheek. My pulse sped up.

"I'm not scared," I said quietly. "And I never will be."

We locked eyes—his fierce, mine unflinching.

He pulled back. Then, like a magician, he snatched my glasses.

"Hey!" I lunged and grabbed them back.

"Sneaky bastard," I muttered.

He smirked. "You started it."

I watched him put his headphones back on, but a few seconds later, he cursed.

"Batteries dead?"

He grunted. "Karma a bitch."

I hesitated. Then sighed. "Look... I'm sorry. I'm just having a crap day. Can we start over?"

He gave me a long look, then finally asked, "You know Jayden Miller, right?"

My heart skipped. "Yeah… why?"

"No reason," he said, grabbing his bag. "Later, sweater girl."

He walked out the door, headphones dangling, not a care in the world.

But something about the way he said Jayden's name—curious, almost calculating—lingered in my mind.

Wesley Blake wasn't just some broody bad boy.

Something between us had shifted. Not a spark—no. Sparks are fleeting.

This?

This was gasoline.

And Wesley Blake had just found a match.