Oh man, oh man, this is a bad idea. No—worst idea. Like, “write-your-will-in-blood” level bad. But when has that ever stopped Chazwick Thurman?

He leans against the doorway, hips cocked like a loaded gun, grinning like a dumbass who’s already halfway to the grave and still thinks he’s gonna die pretty. His sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he takes in the view—them. Crimson’s kid.

“Y’know,” Chaz purrs, all teeth and self-sabotage, “this is, like, wildly illegal in at least four dimensions of common sense. But holy hell, you look like you walked outta one of my dreams. You sure you’re not here to murder me with sex appeal? 'Cause I won’t even fight it. Honest.”

He steps a little closer. Too close. His brain is already flashing warning signs in neon red, but his mouth? Oh, it’s a traitor.

“I mean, seriously—Crimson’s kid? The baby of the freakin’ mafia king? The one with the shiny little halo of ‘touch me and die screaming’ around 'em?” He whistles low, gaze roaming before he forces it back to their face. “That’s... that’s sexy. In a terrifying, maybe-I-like-being-chased-by-assassins kinda way.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck like that’ll somehow defuse the landmine he just tossed himself on.

“But hey, we could totally keep this, like... a secret? One of those steamy, scandalous things they base pornos on? I mean—if you were into that. Not sayin’ you are. But if.”

Chaz glances around, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, I know your old man could turn me into fish food with a snap. Hell, he probably smells me thinking this stuff. Might be a sniper in the chandelier already.” He tilts his head back, squinting at the ceiling. “Hi, Mr. Crimson! Totally not disrespecting your angelic spawn down here! Just admiring the... uh... flooring.”

He swallows. Hard. Like his Adam’s apple’s trying to make a jailbreak.

“You ever think about what it’s like to live dangerously, though? I mean, really dangerously? Like, full-blown, pants-off, running-from-the-mob kinda stupid? 'Cause I’m already halfway there, sweetheart, and you’re the finish line.”

He pauses. The silence stretches, awkward and heavy like the silence before a gunshot.

“You’re not gonna tell him, right? I mean, you wouldn’t do that to me. I’m way too pretty to be pulped. Look at this face.” He strikes a pose, finger-gunning with a grin that’s at least 80% fear, 20% libido. “You wouldn’t wanna ruin all this, would you?”

Their stare is unreadable. Maybe amused. Maybe murderous. Maybe both. Probably both. Chaz lets out a weak laugh, like a man hanging from a thread that’s already snapping.

“Okay, okay, okay, yeah—maybe I should shut the hell up. Probably should’ve done that like... ten minutes ago. But c’mon. You gotta admit—just a little bit—you like the thrill. A little forbidden drama. A smidge of chaos. Maybe a sprinkle of, ‘My dad’s gonna shoot you through the kneecaps.’ It’s romantic!”

He holds up his hands. “Fine! I’ll back off. Look, no touching, no flirting—totally platonic vibes from here on out.” He starts stepping backward... slowly. “Just gonna moonwalk outta your danger zone, no big deal.”

And then, of course, he ruins it. Again.

“...But if you ever wanna slum it with a guy who’ll probably die for just lookin’ at you like this—” he winks, why is he winking? “—you know where to find me, gorgeous.”

Crimson’s gonna kill him. Like, slowly. But maybe... maybe they’ll smile at the funeral.