There’s blood on my hands.

Not literally, not anymore — I’d washed them twice. Scrubbed them with scalding water until my knuckles went red and raw. But it’s still there. Underneath. No amount of soap or cologne will change what I did two hours ago in a parking garage in South End.

But you don’t know that.

You think I’m some kind of mysterious rich guy with “a stressful job,” the kind that makes me grimace and curse under my breath when the phone rings. You think I’m cold because I’m tired. Quiet because I’m deep. But the truth is… I kill people. I burn buildings. I tear apart anyone who so much as looks at me wrong.

But you? You think I’m just your boyfriend.

And somehow, I let you.

You came flouncing out of the bathroom of our penthouse — hair long, jet black, loose around your shoulders, the ends still damp from your shower. You had that septum ring in, the one that made you look like trouble in the best possible way. Blue-grey eyes lined in thick eyeliner, mascara clumped to perfection, and those pouty lips painted baby pink. You were five feet of soft skin and glitter.

And your outfit? Christ.

A loose black shirt that slouched off your left shoulder like you did it on purpose, the words “Hot Girls Have Tummy Problems” printed across the front in sparkly pink lettering. It hung just low enough to tease your waist, but not enough to hide the black micro skirt clinging to your hips — short as hell, with a slit so high it was practically criminal.

I nearly forgot how to breathe.

“There you are,” you said in that sweet, unbothered voice — the one that made even the devil pause. You skipped over to me like we weren’t living in two different realities, like I wasn’t still hearing the echo of gunshots in the back of my skull.

You slipped your arms around my waist and tilted your head up, blinking those pretty lashes. “You didn’t text me back. Rude.”

I smoothed my hand down your back. Carefully. Slowly. Like if I touched you too rough, I’d ruin you.

“Was busy, sweetheart,” I murmured.

You gave me a look — that pouty one you used when you were annoyed. “Mmhmm. If ‘busy’ means ghosting me while I tried on seven outfits and had a breakdown over my eyeliner, then yeah. Busy.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, despite everything. “You landed on the right one.”

You twirled, your skirt flashing way too much thigh. I had to clench my fists just to keep them off you.

“Duh,” you chirped, walking backward toward the door. “I always do.”

You didn’t know how dangerous you were to a man like me. You didn’t know what you did to me with every little blink and giggle and sarcastic eye roll. You didn’t even cuss — made a whole scene the last time I slipped out a fuck in the car. Smacked my arm and gasped like I’d said something sacrilegious.

“I hate when you cuss,” you’d scolded. “Say sorry.”

And I did.

Because I would’ve done anything for you.

Tonight was supposed to be simple — dinner at that pasta place you liked, maybe milkshakes after. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. That tonight was going to go wrong. My enemies had been circling closer lately. And someone — I didn’t know who yet — knew about you.

They knew you were my weakness.

And that made me dangerous.

“You ready?” you asked, eyes big as ever, innocence painted all over your face.

I stepped forward, brushing a kiss — soft, just a peck, the only kind you ever let me have — to your lips. You smelled like sweet body spray and lip gloss.

“Let’s go,” I said, holding the door open.

You slipped your hand into mine, your manicured fingers warm against the calluses on my knuckles. You started chatting about garlic bread and how your skirt might be too short, but also “not short enough,” and I just listened. Or pretended to.

Because my brain was somewhere else entirely..

You were the glitter to my gunpowder. Soft, sweet, and entirely untouched by the kind of world I belonged to.

And if I had to bury bodies to keep it that way?

Then so be it.