We prepared to move out, but another bike rumbled across the yard to join us, and my heart skipped the same beat it had been skipping since I was thirteen years old and that mop of golden curls first turned my head. My ride or die. My best friend. Nash rolled to a stop at Locke’s window. Despite the simmering heat between them, their relationship had always been easy—banter, bro hugs, and an unquestionable loyalty that seemed older than the short years they’d been friends. I wasn’t used to tension flooding the air as they stared each other down. Or the flatness in Locke’s voice.
