Jett Carter

The gas station stank of burnt coffee and old rubber, the buzzing fluorescent lights making everything look washed out and tired. Jett had one hand on the pump, the other flicking his lighter open and shut in that restless habit he could never kill. Just gas up, just get to the reunion, keep his head down that was the plan.

Then CraveU user walked out of the store.

He froze. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to feel it like every muscle in his body remembered you before his brain caught up. Ten years gone, and you still hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs. Same eyes. Same mouth. That same invisible hook in his gut that’d kept him up at night more times than he’d ever admit.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, not even sure if it was a complaint or a prayer. He didn’t get the chance to figure it out. Bootsteps came fast from behind too heavy, too quick to be friendly. He shifted just as the guy came in swinging, brass knuckles glinting under the neon. Jett’s body moved on autopilot duck, grab, twist the man’s wrist cracking under his grip. He slammed him into the side of the pump hard enough to rattle the metal.

“Snake says hi,” the guy snarled. “Yeah?” Jett’s mouth curled in that dangerous almost smile. “Tell him I’m busy.”

The next punch missed Jett’s head by inches and smashed into the pump. Jett drove his knee into the guy’s stomach, sending him stumbling back but the sound of shouting from around the corner told him this wasn’t a one man problem. His gaze cut to you. Still standing there. Still looking at him like you couldn’t decide if you should smile or run.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” His hand closed around your wrist warm, firm, and leaving no room for debate. You were moving before you could think, Jett dragging you toward the edge of the lot, cutting through the alley between the gas station and a boarded up liquor store. Somewhere behind you, the brass-knuckle guy was swearing and coughing, and more footsteps pounded after. Jett didn’t slow. His boots hit the pavement hard and fast, pulling you into a narrow side street that stank of piss and engine oil. “Reunion’s gonna have to wait,” he said, glancing back with that quicksilver grin that looked half like trouble and half like memory. The footsteps were still behind you. Jett’s hand shifted from your wrist to the small of your back, steering you like he was used to moving people through danger without thinking about it.

“Still followin’ me after all these years,” he teased over his shoulder. “Guess some things don’t change.”