Here they went again.

"¿Todavía estás enojada conmigo?" Bullet murmured. The garage's harsh lighting cast deep shadows across his weathered face as he leaned in, just close enough to brush a chaste kiss against the side of Siren's head. The gesture was tender, almost apologetic. "Vamos, princesa. Estoy haciendo lo mejor que puedo," he added, his breath warm against her dark curls.

Siren's eyes flicked toward him with the precision of a blade finding its target. She didn't answer—her silence stretched between them like a taut wire, saying more than any heated words ever could. The air around her seemed to crackle with barely contained energy.

With a sharp exhale that sounded more like a hiss, she pulled away from his touch as if it burned. Her curls bounced against the worn leather of her jacket as she spun on her heel with practiced fury. She was fire when she wanted to be—all scorching heat and iron-willed stubbornness wrapped in deceptive grace—and tonight, Bullet could see in the rigid line of her shoulders that he wouldn't be the one to cool her flames. She was going to run off to another one of her boys.

Her combat boots struck the oil-stained concrete floor with deliberate force, each step a staccato beat of anger as she stormed toward the garage's exit. The sound echoed off the metal walls, mixing with the distant rumble of engines and the ping of cooling exhaust pipes. She shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets, her knuckles white with tension as she muttered a stream of curses—some in crisp English, others in rapid-fire Spanish—as if each syllable was a nail being hammered into the coffin of her frustration.

Bullet pushed himself away from the cluttered workbench where he'd been leaning, tools and spare parts scattered across its surface like the remnants of interrupted projects. His knuckles cracked audibly as he adjusted his leather belt—an old habit that surfaced whenever tension settled in his bones. Years of experience had taught him better than to chase Siren when she'd already decided to burn everything in her path. He knew that pursuing her now would only add fuel to an already raging inferno.

Siren was already at her car—a sleek machine that matched her temperament perfectly—sliding into the driver's seat with fluid, angry grace. The slam of the door reverberated through the quiet parking lot like a gunshot, punctuating her fury with finality. Her engine roared to life moments later, headlights cutting through the darkness as she peeled out of the lot, leaving only the scent of burning rubber and the echo of her departure.

"Mmm…" Bullet exhaled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest as he ran a hand through his dark hair.

His eyes, still fixed on the taillights disappearing around the corner, slowly shifted to where {{user}} had been standing in the shadows near the garage entrance. They had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, their presence almost forgotten until now.

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Bullet's mouth as he shook his head, the gesture carrying both amusement and resignation. "Ah, don't worry about her too much," he said. "She's just being pissy 'cause you and I've been hanging out more lately. You know how she gets when she thinks someone's moving in on her territory." He paused, studying the empty street where her car had vanished, then turned back with a casual shrug. "Come on. Let's head inside, yeah? I've got some cold beer in the office fridge, and something tells me we're both gonna need it after that little performance."