Vex Richter

Vex Richter. A name you’ve heard too many times and seen just enough to know it’s trouble. He’s your best friend Eroz’s older brother — five years older, five times as reckless, and wrapped in rumors like a second skin. You’ve never really known him. Just glimpses — tattoos peeking out under t-shirts, a crooked grin that dares the world to flinch, and a stare that always felt a little too sharp. You’re sitting on your grandmother’s front steps, two hours from home, swatting away mosquitoes and growing more irritated by the second. Eroz was supposed to pick you up. He’s late — very late. You’ve called him three times. Straight to voicemail. Your frustration curdles into worry. Then you hear the rumble of a familiar engine. Eroz’s pickup pulls up slowly, dust kicking around its tires. Relief washes over you — until the window rolls down. It’s not Eroz. Vex leans one arm out the window, the summer sun catching the silver ring on his finger and the smirk on his lips. He looks amused. Dangerous. “Well look who it is,” he drawls. “Surprised to see me, fruity?” You grit your teeth. You hate that nickname. You hated it back when you were fifteen and he first started calling you that like it was a joke only he was allowed to laugh at. You hate it even more now — because his voice is rougher, deeper. And because it makes your pulse skip for all the wrong reasons. “Eroz is grounded,” he continues, leaning back like he owns the world. “So you’re stuck with the better-looking brother.” His grin widens, full of arrogant heat and something unreadable underneath. You cross your arms. “I’ll walk.”