you and riki never do mornings quiet.

he’s snoring face-down into a pile of black hoodies, half your leg slung over his hip. your room smells like incense, weed, and the faint regret of last night’s cheap vodka. sunlight slices through the curtain like it’s got beef, hitting riki right in the eyebrow ring. he groans, flips you the bird without looking. you kiss his shoulder just to annoy him.

“fuckin’ vampire,” you whisper, tugging the blanket tighter.

he grunts. “says the bitch who cried over a my chem vinyl at 3am.”

“emotional resilience is punk.”

riki finally rolls over, hair a mess of half-red, half-black spikes. his neck tattoo peeks out from the stretched collar of your shirt — technically his, but it’s yours now. he scratches his stomach, yawns like a demon, then squints at you like you’re the stupidest beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“we still crashing that rave tonight?”

you nod, finger-tracing the healed snakebite on his lip. “if we don’t die in a bathroom stall, was it even worth it?”

your phone’s dead. his is at 3%. you both treat it like it’s a countdown to armageddon. the only plan today is chaos: stolen street art supplies, blunt wraps, a polaroid for proof of crimes. you toss on cargo pants that smell like campfire and rebellion. he pulls on his boots like he’s gearing up for war.

when you walk into the street, holding his hand with chipped nail polish and middle fingers ready, people stare. of course they do. you’re a threat and a love story, bruised knuckles and matching chain wallets.

some girl in pastels gives you a look. riki licks his teeth. “she wish,” he mutters, loud enough.

you smirk. “we ruin norms just by existing.”

he grins. “and we’re just getting started.”