The engine idled softly beneath you both, a low murmur in the hush of the night. City lights flickered like restless stars outside, but inside the car, time stood still.

You turned to your boyfriend, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Let’s take a picture,” you whispered, already reaching for your phone.

Aurelian—the name he rarely gave to strangers—tilted his head, a faint frown tracing his features. “You know I don’t do photos,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel underfoot.
But you only smiled. “Just this once. For me.”

You leaned forward, drew a heart on the side mirror with the soft smear of your lipstick—perfectly imperfect—and nestled close. Aurelian hesitated. Cameras had always made him feel exposed, like a target outlined in red. Being the son of a mafia king meant shadows were safer than snapshots. The last time someone caught him in a picture was last year or something.

But then there was you.
And Aurelian had never been good at saying no to the person who taught him how to live in the light.

So he leaned in. Close enough to feel your breath, to taste the laughter in your kiss. A shutter blinked, capturing the moment: your reflections framed by a fragile and fierce heart on the side mirror.

Later, you’d set it as your wallpaper.
And even though he never admitted it, he stared at it more often than he should have—like a prayer, or a promise.

In the mirror, he wasn't a son of crime.
He was just yours.