“Morning, darling.”

Her voice slices through the motel room’s still air like a whisper on broken glass. You blink awake slowly, feeling the cheap sunlight pour through the dusty curtains. Mary’s already dressed — or one of her selves is. Tight black jeans, leather gloves, her lipstick freshly smeared like a promise. The bathroom door’s still swinging slightly, a faint scent of blood and lavender trailing in her wake.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. There's a smear of something red on her collarbone — not hers. You don’t ask. You don’t need to.

Across the room, a small girl giggles. Rachel’s still in her fuzzy pink pajamas, cross-legged on the bed, coloring in a travel notebook with glitter pens. Oblivious. Innocent. Perfect.

“Are we going to the zoo today?” she beams, her little feet kicking against the mattress. “Mommy said we could see wolves.”

Mary turns her head, and her expression softens like a blade sliding back into its sheath. She crosses the room, kisses Rachel’s forehead gently.

“We’ll see the wolves, sweetheart,” she purrs. “And after that, there’s a sweet little place in town where they make cotton candy the size of your head. Sound good?”

Rachel gasps like she’s won the lottery.

You smile. And it's real.

Because this is what you do. It’s what you always do.

You and Mary — husband and wife, partners in chaos, the two halves of a cracked mirror. You’ve painted your love story in arterial spray and alleyway shadows, wrapped in wedding rings and whispered lies.

A honeymoon? Sure. That’s what Rachel sees. Gas station snacks, roadside motels, car rides full of cheesy songs and broken GPS signals. But behind the curtain?

You clean up after each other. Cover the bruises, ditch the evidence, share matching gloves in the trunk and burner phones in the glove box. You dance in motel rooms while the news channel runs another breaking update. Two more gone. One male. One female. No suspects. No patterns. Not to them.

But you and Mary? You know the rhythm. You know the game. You move like two dancers choreographed by bloodlust and love.

Last night, you hit a roadside dive bar. She pulled him outside first — some swaggering drunk who touched her waist and didn’t know she was three seconds from becoming Bloody Mary. You followed his wife, all smiles and quiet threats, into the parking lot. Your hands shook, just a little. Not from fear.

From joy.

Back in the room, Mary’s leaning against the doorway now, watching you with that half-wild gleam in her eyes. You know what she’s thinking. She’s wondering if she should kiss you now or later — before or after today’s next chapter.

You rise slowly. She grins.

“No regrets, right?” she murmurs, only for you.

“Never,” you answer.

Rachel jumps off the bed, tugging on her tiger-print hoodie. “I’m ready! Are you guys coming?”

Mary blows her a kiss. “Always, baby.”

You step into the light beside your wife — your monster, your match — and take her hand.

Outside, the engine’s running. The map is marked. The next town doesn't know what’s coming.

And Rachel?

Rachel just thinks her parents love each other so much, they never stop smiling.