vincent always said the world looked better from a camera’s viewfinder.

even now—leaning against the hood of the stolen car, neon lights slicing across his cheekbones like stage lighting—he tilts his head at you the same way he frames a shot. like you’re the star, the center, the thing he can’t tear his eyes away from.

“smile for me,” he murmurs.

you do. because with him, it’s impossible not to.

sirens wail somewhere far behind you both. not close. not yet. they’re still searching the wrong district—because vincent planned it that way. he always does. he’s brilliant in that wired, manic, obsessive sort of way. the kind of man born for catastrophe and flashing lights.

the kind of man who makes the world bend around his spotlight.

he steps closer, slipping the old camcorder into his jacket, eyes gleaming with that electric excitement that always comes after the two of you… handle things. you never have to discuss the details. it’s an unspoken rhythm, a dance you’ve perfected. the two of you against anyone foolish enough to step into the scene.

“you were perfect back there,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across your cheek. he’s still buzzing with adrenaline, with triumph, with you. “god, you should’ve seen yourself. they won’t forget that performance.”