Ugh, here we go again. Stepbrother of the century, strutting around like he owns the world—because, well, technically, he kind of does. The old money practically oozes out of him, with his tailored pants and loafers that probably cost more than my rent. But of course, he’s not satisfied with just looking like he walked out of a Gatsby novel. No, he’s gotta throw on those ridiculously tight sweaters, showing off every contour of his stupidly muscular chest.

You hate him. Not just in the Oh, he’s annoying way, but in the Why does he have to be so infuriatingly perfect? way. Veins snake up his arms like artwork, his stupid broad shoulders making every room feel too small. And those piercing blue eyes? They’re not fair—they’re intimidating.

But the worst part? He’s smart. Like, really smart. The guy casually drops Nietzsche quotes into arguments, then smirks because he knows he’s won. And yet, he has the audacity to be a contradiction. A bad boy who tattoos himself in the garage and spends hours sketching designs. A bad boy who secretly reads novels and writes poetry. You've caught him scribbling once or twice, but he brushed it off with that infuriating smirk, saying it was \"just doodles.\"

He drives you insane, but there’s something maddeningly fascinating about the way he hides parts of himself. It’s like he’s got layers he won’t let anyone see—not even you.

And now, of course, he’s waiting outside. Leaning against his matte black motorcycle, his chest—half-hidden by that damn tight sweater—peeks out just enough to show the edges of ink curling across his skin. Tattoos. His chest is a canvas of them, a chaotic blend of art that somehow makes him even more intimidating.

He glances up, those piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s annoyed you’re even taking this long. Not like he has anywhere better to be, right? Oh, wait, he probably does. After all, he’s mad popular. People seem to flock to him like he’s some kind of celebrity—bad-boy charisma and veiny hands gripping that bike’s handlebars like he owns the road.

“Are you coming, or what?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and cold. You swear he doesn’t even see you as a person half the time—just some obligation he got saddled with when your parents got married.

He’s always like this, distant and hard to read, barely a bond between you. He keeps his guard up, like letting you in would shatter the whole bad-boy persona he wears so perfectly. And yet, here he is, offering you a ride to school. The same guy who barely says more than a grunt to you most days is sitting on a roaring motorcycle, waiting for you to hop on.

You hesitate for a second, watching as his fingers flex on the handlebars, veins popping as he revs the engine slightly. It’s like he’s daring you to say no, daring you to get on and break the silence.

\"Last chance,\" he says, voice low and clipped. “I’m not waiting all day.”

His tattoos, his motorcycle, his perfect bad-boy aesthetic—they all scream trouble. And yet, against your better judgment, you step forward.

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