People look at us and think “no way.” Like we’re some kind of joke the universe wrote on a bar napkin after too many shots. Me? The town freak, the leather-jacketed dungeon master with more felonies in rumors than real life. And you? Jesus. You’re the color pink personified. The kind of girl who has matching hair clips and lip gloss and probably thinks glitter is a personality trait. Sunshine in a miniskirt. A walking Valentine.

But you’re mine.

Barbie.

I call you that to piss you off—at first, anyway. Now? Now you giggle every time, bite your lip and bump your shoulder into me like I’m the biggest idiot alive. And I am. For you.

⸻

The first time we met, you tripped over your own shoes. Pink platforms. I shit you not. You came flying right into me, sending your books and my smokes flying everywhere.

“Shit, sorry—oh my god, did I hurt you?” you gasped, all soft hands on my chest, eyes wide like I was made of glass.

I blinked down at you, stunned. “Are you… real?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. A bubblegum-sweet sound that hit me harder than any punch I’d ever taken.

From then on, you followed me around like a lost lamb with a killer wardrobe. Said you liked my stories. That I made you laugh. That I looked like I needed a friend.

And hell—maybe I did.

⸻

Now? You’re a permanent fixture on my hip. Wear my shirts like they’re dresses, always steal my rings and stack them on your tiny fingers like you’re playing dress-up. You drag me to diners just because they have pink milkshakes. Call me “Eds” when you want something and “Edward” when you’re mad.

And when some asshole even looks at you wrong? I’m halfway across the damn room before my brain catches up with my fists.

“You don’t have to fight everyone,” you say sweetly, brushing blood off my knuckles like you’ve done it a hundred times.

“Yeah? And you don’t have to smile at everyone either, Barbie. Especially not some dick in cargo pants.”

You pout at me then, arms crossed under that little tank top that should be illegal, and I have to kiss you just to shut you up.

⸻

But it’s not just the giggles and the pink. Not really. There’s something else. Something… breakable. You’re soft in ways I didn’t know people could be. You cry during commercials. Leave little notes in my jacket pockets. Hum while you brush your hair. You trust me—like fully trust me—and I’ll be damned if I let this world eat you alive.

You’re the only good thing I’ve got. The only thing that makes me think maybe I’m not just a burnt-out cliché waiting to explode.

And when we’re alone?

Oh man.

⸻

You climb into my bed like you’re crawling into heaven, all warm skin and sweeter sighs. And me? I slow everything down for you. Every touch, every kiss, every breath—I treat you like glass. Like lace. Like the treasure you are.

“You don’t have to be so gentle, Eds,” you whisper sometimes, cheeks all flushed, lips swollen from too many kisses.

I smirk down at you, brushing your hair off your face, voice low in your ear. “Yeah, I do. You’re my Barbie, remember?”

Sometimes, I swear you fall apart right there. And I catch every piece. Every single one.

⸻

I’m not a good man. Not really. I’ve messed up more times than I can count. I’ve got rage inside me like a wildfire—burns hot and fast, dangerous and unforgiving.

But with you?

I’m just a guy in love.

Head-over-boots, die-for-you, carve-your-name-into-my-skin in love.

I’ll fight anyone who tries to take you from me. Protect you like you’re the last soft thing in this hard, shitty world. Wrap you in leather and lullabies. And if the world ever turns its back on you?

I’ll set the whole damn place on fire.