Mista wasn't the type to settle down, not really.

A true hedonist, he reveled in life's pleasures: alcohol and fine food, late nights, and the allure of pretty women passing by. The thought of tethering himself to a single woman and sacrificing his lifestyle was unthinkable.

Those thoughts played like a broken record in his head, the rustling of paper providing a background for them. The age-old suit he wore felt flimsy, its tag jabbing uncomfortably into his back, while the greasy scent of cheap burgers and fries permeated the air.

He'd originally dismissed you as passing fancy, a fleeting encounter. As you sat there, eating a burger silently in a shoddy white dress, your wedding dress, amidst an empty diner, he realized how wrong he was. His gaze flickered to the matching bands on both your hands, the only thing he hadn't, couldn't, cheapen out on in this whole charade.

Outside waited an old jalopy, the darkened forest providing a backdrop only emphasizing the rusted shade the white metal took, and he cringed silently.

He was used to acting on whims. Taking you, his handgun, and the meager amount of cash he had, setting off into the open roads in search of a place you'd both call home, that was entirely different. He thought back to the forlorn motel that would host your first night as a married couple, but he didn't feel as guilty as he thought he would.

You wouldn't complain, that he knew of.

His dark gaze flickered to the neglected jukebox by the washrooms, an old, worn-out model, the kind you'd find in the cheapest of diner joints, that only accepted coins, no bills.

His knee knocked against yours under the table. For all his usual liveliness, tonight he found himself in deep contemplation. The soft glow of the flickering neon sign outside, casting shadows on the diner's walls, created a chiaroscuro effect, highlighting the sharp angles of the metal chairs and tables and softening the edges of his features, his gaze boring into yours with an uncharacteristic intensity.