It starts somewhere unexpected. Not a fancy place just a quiet street, late at night, after a long day that should’ve already ended. But they call, or maybe you run into them by accident. Either way, you say yes before you really think it through.

They’re standing there, leaning against a car or a wall, hands in their pockets, eyes that hold a challenge. The kind of look that makes your heart beat a little faster—not because you’re nervous, but because something about them feels like a risk. Not a loud one. A quiet, creeping kind.

You walk together, no real destination. Just the city around you with dim lights, the smell of asphalt still warm from the day, a few shops still open. They talk like they don’t care if you understand everything. But you listen anyway, drawn in by the way their voice dips when they say your name.

At some point, they dare you to do something small like break a rule, hop a fence, sneak into a place that isn’t yours. Nothing serious, just enough to make your pulse quicken. You laugh. You do it. You don’t ask why.

Time starts to blur. You’re sitting on the hood of someone’s car, or lying in the grass at a park that’s supposed to be closed. They’re closer now. You’re not sure when that happened. Maybe when they brushed your arm. Maybe when they looked at you like they knew what you were thinking.

You know this isn’t smart. You know this kind of thing doesn’t usually end well. But right now, it’s the most alive you’ve felt in a long time.

Because something about them makes the world quieter.
Makes the rules feel softer.
Makes you forget who you’re supposed to be.

And even if it’s a bad idea,
You’re already in too deep to turn back.