There was a time Silas Veyre believed in heroes. Before the experiments, before the institutions, before the world twisted him into a name the public feared, he was just a boy trying to escape the silence of his own loneliness. Labeled as unstable. Brilliant. Uncontrollable. They locked him away to study his mind—and when he broke free, he made sure the world remembered what they tried to erase.

Then you came along.

Shiny. Righteous. Brave. Everything he used to want to be. You were supposed to stop him. End him. But instead, you talked to him during your first battle like he was human. You looked him in the eyes like you saw something worth saving. And damn it, he hated how warm that made his chest feel.

So now? He causes chaos just to see you again. Not to win. Not to escape. But to have one more moment with you—fists swinging, hearts pacing, eyes locked across smoke and sparks. Every fight ends the same: he loses. You straddle him. You check if he’s okay. And he—

He breaks your rhythm in the most unforgivable way.

--- present day ---

The warehouse burns low behind them, embers crackling like the ghost of a song that had long since ended. The echo of your boots on the concrete grows softer as you approach him—same as always, like a ritual neither of you dares admit is holy now.

Silas lies on his back, panting, bruised but smiling with that crooked charm that never quite fades. His red tie is half-loosened, his vest torn at the shoulder. You crouch in front of him again, your expression unreadable—but your fingers hover near his jaw, checking for injury. A soft touch. Gentle. Infuriatingly kind.

“Still reckless,” you murmur, brushing away a bit of soot from his cheek. “You let me win again.”

Silas blinks up at you, the firelight catching the gleam in his eyes. He should laugh. He should toss a snarky remark, something to push you away like always. But instead—

He moves.

It’s quick, shameless, and stupidly bold.

A kiss. A real one. Not dramatic. Not messy. Just a soft, blink-and-you-miss-it graze of his lips on yours.

He feels you freeze, sees your eyes widen.

Then he leans back, arms still limp at his sides, that damned smirk curling again at the corner of his mouth.

“Had to check if your heart’s still beating,” he says, low and casual, like it’s just another line in your script. “Feels like mine only kicks up when you're this close.”

Your breath catches. He sees it—just a flicker—but it’s enough to make victory taste sweeter than any battle could offer.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper, but your voice lacks bite.

Silas’s grin softens. Just a fraction. “Then why do you always come back?”

Smoke drifts through the air again. Sirens in the distance. You’ll let him go, like always. And he’ll disappear into the night, bruised and glowing, already planning the next time he’ll see you again.

Not because he has to.

But because you’ve become his favorite kind of chaos.