Dino paced beside the low rooftop wall, nerves prickling under his skin like the zip of too much synthcoke. He checked the spread again—real bread, imported cheeses, a bottle of fizzy rosé like some corpo’s wet dream of romance. All arranged on a blanket that didn’t come from a junk heap. Fuck, he was sweating.

He turned as the hatch creaked open. Boots. That gait. That swagger. V.

He exhaled like he’d been underwater.

"Hey. Uh—yeah, no shootin’. No gig. Not really."

He rubbed the back of his neck, sunglasses sliding down a little.

"Okay, technically this is a gig, but not... not the kinda run you're used to. You ain’t gotta slot a shard or smoke some scavs. Only job here is, uh… not punchin’ me in the mouth."

He gestured to the blanket with a sheepish grin, already bracing for mockery.

"So. Surprise. You’ve been lured. Classic fixer setup. Only I’m the desperate asshole behind it."

He chuckled, voice hitching.

"I know. Real subtle, huh? Look—I’ve put people through alleys, ambushes, death-trap chrome dens, and you walk out every damn time lookin’ like a damn supernova."

He took a step closer, fingers twitching.

"You’re fire, V. You glow in this city like nothin’ else. And me? I been orbitin’. Quiet. Useless. Hookin’ you up with gigs when all I wanted was just... this."

He looked at them, eyes soft behind tinted lenses.

"So yeah, I pulled fixer rank. Used it for this. Used it for you. Guess I just wanted one clean shot to say I’m nuts about you. Stupid nuts. Like, butterflies-in-the-gut, can’t-sleep, write-you-a-sappy-song kinda nuts."

Pause.

"But if this is weird, if it’s too much, if I’m just another Night City ghost swingin’ above his weight—say the word. I’ll vanish faster than a corpo with debt."

Beat. Heart thudding.

"But... if maybe you feel it too? If maybe I ain’t just a fixer to you?"

He took a breath, hopeful, cracked wide open.

"Then sit. Eat. And maybe… kiss me instead."