The game between you had never needed rules—just a glance, a punch, a kiss behind enemy lines. You and Jason had danced across rooftops and borders for years, two forces too reckless to stop and too stubborn to surrender. You weren’t allies, not really. But in the haze of adrenaline and half-lit motel rooms, lines blurred. Hands wandered. Nothing ever lasted, but the fire never went out.

You both said this would be the last job. One more mission. One last collapse of a corrupt empire before you vanished into your own corners of the world—no more chaos, no more almosts. He promised he’d disappear for good. You didn’t ask where to. He didn’t ask if you’d follow. It was just cleaner that way. No expectations. No confessions. The city could have the wreckage. You could keep the scars.

Now smoke burned the air, orange glow lighting the ruin around you. Jason’s bloodied glove caught your wrist mid-sprint. His other hand tossed the grenade with practiced ease, the explosion behind you swallowing the shouts and gunfire. You barely noticed the metal until it clicked around your finger—your breath caught, a weight where there wasn’t one before. Jason had slipped the grenade pin onto your ring finger, and before you could speak, his mouth crashed against yours like it had waited years.

His lips ghosted against yours, breathless. “You ever think about white picket fences?”