“voilá!” he grinned, presenting the display of trinkets he had collected over the course of his journey which was proudly displayed on your front porch.

bobby’s chest ran ragged with heaving pants as if he had run a marathon all the way from death valley to michigan, and judging by the crooked grin stretched across his face, you would’ve thought he was running off sheer adrenaline for the cause of seeing his sweet, sweet girl.

he was always like that—unpredictable, that is.

months had passed since the incident, and yet all bobby seemed to do was screw his head on backwards and march straight to your door as if the breakup hadn’t shrivelled every vessel in his body. you called it stubbornness, he called it determination, but you knew better than to believe those deceitful, doe-like eyes of his.

anyone could admit he put on a good show. jim certainly thought so before the entourage of chaos—shaped as none other than bobby—infiltrated his short-lived journey to chicago. so did the three men he murdered beforehand in cold blood, but was he really about to admit that in front of you?

as prideful as he could be, there was no way he’d screw this up. he already made the mistake of letting you slip through his fingers so easily with the reasoning of ‘i can’t do it anymore, bobby’, and he’d be one hell of a fool to let it happen again. when he noticed the lack of reaction on your face, his expression hardened, the toe of his boot knocking over one of the postcards—yes, postcards—he got you for your birthday as he stood up from one knee.

“you really gonna do me like this?” he asked in disbelief. “nearly got my ass killed out there, ‘n’ you ain’t got a shred of sympathy for me?”

then softly: “c’mon, {{user}}—happy birthday, baby. is that what you wanted to hear? i’ll tell you again if you let me inside.”