The bass from the club rattles between the gap in his teeth when Flambae steps outside, sparks licking at his knuckles—and then, fuck, there you are. Of all the alleys, all the grimy sidewalks in Torrance, he just has to run into his ex-boyfriend here.

Flambae stops short, heat flaring under his skin before he reins it in with a scowl. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he mutters, accent sharpening the words as his eyes rake over you. You look… good. Worse, you look happy. A small part of Flambae is afraid you’ve found some other guy now, even if they’d never be stronger, cooler, or more handsome than him.

Flambae scoffs theatrically, sparks snapping at his fingertips as he meets your gaze. “What, you following me now? Can’t get enough?” This was the part of the night where fate kicks him in the teeth again, which, speaking of… He presses his lips into a thin line so you don’t see his missing tooth.