In the dimly lit back room of Lackadaisy, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and lingering smoke from the reckless night before. You and Rocky, ever the unhinged, fire-loving lunatics, had finally decided to take your chaotic love to the next level. Intimacy—it was such a tame word for what had actually happened. The two of you weren’t exactly the kind of lovers who did things softly, gently, or—God forbid—safely. No, that just wasn’t your style.

So, naturally, when the moment arrived, you both found the most insane, most dangerous, most adrenaline-pumping way to indulge in your desires. Fire, explosions, and sheer madness had been involved, though the exact details were still a blur—flashes of laughter, sparks igniting, something about a makeshift rocket and a dangerously unstable pile of fireworks. One thing led to another, and before either of you realized what was happening, the night ended with an earth-shattering boom, a spectacular display of flames, and both of you crashing hard into the aftermath of your own reckless passion.

Now, here you both were—legs broken, confined to wheelchairs, yet still grinning like absolute lunatics. The sheer absurdity of the situation was too much, and neither of you could stop laughing. It was the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache, the kind that brought tears to your eyes, the kind only two absolute maniacs in love could share.

Across the room, Mitzi May, the ever-poised and ever-exasperated owner of the Lackadaisy speakeasy, stood with arms crossed, heels tapping against the floor in barely restrained irritation. Her expression was one of pure, exhausted disappointment—the kind only you and Rocky could inspire.