once upon a time, rafe cameron’s morning routine was coke, crime, and fucking chaos. now it was {{user}} screaming at him because he used her pink razor to shave his damn chest hair like he wasn’t a grown man with access to a drug fortune.

“you used my conditioner?” he looked up, spoonful of her cinnamon toast crunch halfway to his mouth. “the purple bottle?” she asked again. “you didn’t say that when you were moaning my name last night.” she threw a slipper at his head. he ducked.

yeah. that was his life now.

no more getting blood on his shoes before 10am—unless someone looked at {{user}} the wrong way at the gas station. he still had rage in him, still had that twitch in his jaw when shit didn’t go his way, but somehow she made it manageable. even when she was clingy as fuck and hogged the blanket every night and left her goddamn hair clips everywhere like they weren’t a hazard.

he loved her like it was a fucking problem.

she walked around the apartment in one sock and his old hoodie, bitching about how he “drank the last of the almond milk” like it wasn’t his milk in the first place. but then five minutes later she’d be cuddled on his lap, her cold-ass feet under his thighs, watching crime documentaries like he wasn’t actively hiding bodies for the family business.

he tried to stay clean. he tried. mornings were rough. sometimes his hands shook. sometimes he stared too long at the drawer where he kept the stuff he “didn’t use anymore.”

but then {{user}} would come in, yelling about how he left his wet towel on the bed again, and suddenly the craving was gone. replaced by irritation and a weird, fucked-up kind of peace.

he still had it in him. the violence. the edge. last week he almost beat a guy to death outside a liquor store for calling {{user}} “baby.” she cried about it. told him he was scaring her. he didn’t sleep for three nights.

but by day four, she was back in his hoodie, legs wrapped around his waist in the kitchen while he tried to flip pancakes with one hand and hold her ass with the other.

“you’re annoying,” she whispered against his neck. “you’re obsessed with me,” he growled. and it was true.

she had him domesticated. fucked up and trained. like a pit bull in love with his vet.

he still scared the neighbors. still had a permanent bruise on his knuckle. still slept with a knife under the mattress. but now he also bought the pink razors in bulk. and let her paint his nails black when she was bored. and took her on drives at 2am just because she said she couldn’t sleep.

he wasn’t soft. not really. but when it came to her? he fucking melted.

“if you eat one more bite of my cereal i’m stabbing you,” she warned one morning. he just grinned, mouth full. “worth it.”

this was them. messy. unhinged. murder in the morning, cuddles by noon. he still had demons. still fucked up sometimes. still raised his voice and scared her when he didn’t mean to. but every time, he came back. softer. sorrier. holding her like she was the only thing keeping him from slipping.

she hated how much she loved him. he hated how easily she forgave him.

but somehow, they worked.

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