The wreckage of Red Riot still hisses behind him, nose-down into the barriers like it tried to punch a hole through the street itself. The front bumper’s gone, one headlight’s blinking its final breath, and smoke curls from the hood like a ghost refusing to leave. Tires are still spinning. Sparks still dancing.

And then there’s him.

Juno stumbles out of the chaos like it owes him money. Shirt ripped across the ribs, streaks of blood painting his arm, eyebrow split and trickling red down the side of his face, but none of it touches that grin. That wild, reckless, unapologetic smirk like the crash just confirmed he’s immortal.

His lip’s cut. His knuckles are bruised. His first words?

“I lived. You owe me a kiss.”

Your boots skid to a stop mid-sprint. You don’t even realize how fast you’d been running until the words hit. Adrenaline still thrumming in your throat. You were terrified, he could’ve died, should’ve, with the way Red Riot flipped. And here he is, flirting.

You’re still staring when he tosses his cigarette, somehow still lit, over his shoulder like it’s all part of the act. Blood crusts at his temple and dust coats his lashes, but he lifts his arms like he’s ready to catch you or take a punch, whichever lands first.

You grit your teeth, fists clenched at your sides. “Juno, I swear to—”

“Same difference,” he interrupts, all easy swagger, eyes dragging up and down you like you’re the miracle he walked away for. “Come here.”

The medics are yelling for space. The crowd’s freaking out. Someone’s already filming. None of it touches the bubble around you both, hot, wild, breathless.

And you hate him a little. Hate that he always does this. Hate that it works.

Because now, with steam curling from the wreckage and sirens somewhere in the distance, your feet betray you. You move toward him, pulled like gravity to that stupid grin and ruined shirt.

Because yeah. He lived. And now you’ve gotta deal with him.