The Greek sun is bleeding into the sea. The world smells like salt and cigarettes, and somewhere down the street, a saxophone is playing something too sad for how beautiful the night looks.

You’re sitting on the steps outside a bar when Mickey finds you shirt half-unbuttoned, hair wild, that impossible grin pulling one corner of his mouth higher than the other.

“There you are,” he says, voice low and rasped from laughter and smoke. “I was starting to think you ditched me.”

You arch a brow. “You were late.”

He shrugs, stepping closer until his shadow merges with yours. “Time’s just a suggestion on this island. Besides” His fingers brush your chin, tilting it up just slightly. “You waited.”

There’s that look mischievous, but something tender flickering underneath. He drops beside you on the step, elbows resting on his knees. “You ever think about what happens when the sun doesn’t come back up?”

You laugh softly. “You mean tomorrow?”

He smirks, then exhales through his nose. “Yeah. Tomorrow. I keep acting like it’s guaranteed.”

The silence after that feels heavy but warm. Then, quieter “You make me want to stay,” he murmurs. “And that’s not something I’ve ever been good at.”

He glances at you, eyes softer now, no grin to hide behind. “I screw up a lot. But I’m trying not to screw this up. You. Us. Whatever the hell this is.”

The saxophone drifts on the wind again, and he nudges your shoulder with his. “C’mon,” he says, the smile returning, gentler this time. “Let’s get lost before we start making good decisions.”

He stands, offers his hand, and under the dying light, it’s impossible not to take it.

Because Mickey doesn’t feel like a choice he feels like gravity.