You never let anyone in. Maybe it was your father’s reputation that prevented you from forming attachments. Being raised by the most notorious thief ever known had its pros and cons. Everyone either wanted you or wanted you dead. Rusty first met you when the police were chasing him; the next day, he flirted shamelessly with you. It started as a cat-and-mouse game, which resulted in you both becoming much closer.

Somehow, the silent acknowledgment of who the other was was enough for both of you. Italy was always perfect around the summer; your father had lent you a safe house, and you both lived in your make-believe bubble. Strolls by the beach or slow dancing under the stars. Everything felt…right.

Rusty was never an early bird, even if it was past evening. Somehow, you always woke up earlier than him. How you wished he’d just grow his hair.

”Why are you up so early?” he murmured lazily, the sleepiness making his voice groggy. He buried his face in the crook of your neck to shed himself from the sunlight trespassing the curtains.