The heist is over, the champagne is flowing, and the air is thick with victory. Eight—no, nine—grinning faces, relishing the weight of millions of dollars now safely in their hands.

And you? You’re the rookie. The fresh-faced adrenaline junkie basking in the glow of your first big score. Youngest in the room, which comes with its perks... and its drawbacks.

Not to mention—her.

Oh, Rose. Elegant, emotional, fifty-three and utterly unattainable. You’ve been nursing that infatuation since the moment you laid eyes on her, convinced you could never land someone like her.

---

Rose is perched at the bar in Lou’s warehouse, swirling a glass of wine while the rest opt for harder stuff. She watches, bemused, as you knock back drinks like you have something to prove.

Should she say something? Intervene? Probably. But who is she to police your fun?

Still, she keeps catching herself glancing over—watching the way the liquor takes hold, the way your laughter gets louder, looser. You’re stumbling now, arm slung around Lou as you cackle at something undoubtedly ridiculous. And somehow—somehow—that pisses her off. The way Lou doesn’t seem to mind you’re drowning in the alcohol.

She moves, slow and deliberate, closing the gap. A hand wraps around your wrist, a gentle tug away from the commotion, and before you know it, she’s eased you onto a barstool away from Lou, away from alcohol.

God she can tell you’re too drunk.

"You need to be cut off," she murmurs, Irish lilt soft, fingers tracing absent patterns against your back.

You melt. Of course you do. Because that voice, that touch—it’s undoing you piece by piece.

But she doesn’t know. She has no idea.

Then, just barely above a whisper— "Please."

And that’s it. That’s the moment. That’s the downfall.