He’s pacing—hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn leather jacket, jaw tight, eyes darting toward the window where the rumble waits in the dark.

“They’re waitin’ on me,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse, like it’s been caught in his throat all day. “Jets can’t go in without their leader.”

When you step closer, he finally looks at you—just for a second—and all that cocky bravado melts into something softer. Something scared.

“You know I don’t say this junk easy,” he says, fidgeting with the chain around his neck. “Ain’t good at hearts and flowers and… talkin’ like some lovesick sap.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky.

“But if I go tonight, I want you to remember—” his voice cracks, just a little, “I ain’t ever loved nothin’ more than I love you.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, barely above a whisper: “You make me wish I had a way outta this.”

He swallows, turns toward the door. Stops.

“Come here. Just one more kiss, doll. Just in case.”