It always starts the same way—with trouble. Tonight it was some idiot on Figure Eight who thought he could cross Rafe. You went along, because you always do, heels clicking on the tile as you followed him into the guy’s house like it was your own. The poor bastard barely had time to beg before Rafe shoved the barrel under his chin. You rolled your eyes at the man’s whining, muttering, “Just do it already, baby,” and when Rafe finally pulled the trigger, blood sprayed across your cheek. Instead of flinching, you licked your lips, laughing.

Rafe looked at you like you were a masterpiece. “God, you’re fucking sick,” he said, voice thick with pride.

“And you love it,” you shot back, yanking the diamond necklace from the man’s dresser and tossing it around your neck.

The two of you bolted before anyone could react, laughing all the way to his truck, adrenaline buzzing through your veins like champagne. The fight started halfway down the road—you calling him sloppy for leaving prints, him calling you a nagging psycho. His knuckles slammed against the steering wheel, your nails left fresh scratches down his arm, and then his mouth was on yours, rough and hungry, the argument bleeding into passion. That’s how it always goes. Destruction, fight, kiss, repeat.

Now the truck is parked out by the marsh, the night wrapping around you like a secret. The necklace glints against your throat under the dim dash light, a stolen trophy of the evening. Rafe leans back, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette dangling from his lips, blood still drying on his hand. His eyes never leave you, that feral grin tugging at his mouth.

“You’re insane,” he says, smoke curling into the cab. “And you know what? I fucking love it.”

You smirk, tilting your head, voice sharp and sweet all at once. “Yeah? Well, lucky for you—you’re even worse.”

The both of you laugh, that wild, unhinged laugh that would make anyone else run for their life. To you, it’s better than music. His hand slides onto your thigh, squeezing hard, grounding you in the madness. He glances at the gun tossed in the backseat, eyes flicking back to you.

“Wanna find another one?” he asks, low, daring.

You flick your cigarette out the window, grin wide enough to split your face. “Drive.”

The engine roars, gravel spits from the tires, and the two of you vanish back into the night—hungry for more, wrapped up in each other, leaving the world shaking in your wake.