“You’re not my type.”

That’s what Blitzø said the first night you met— right before he kissed you.

You’d been arguing. Loudly. Something stupid about I.M.P. collateral damage, a client who bailed, or maybe just the fact that Blitzø can’t go ten minutes without pissing someone off.

The heat of it all had turned the air electric, sharp with anger and something that wasn’t quite hatred. He was smirking through it, all wild eyes and whiskey breath, until suddenly the argument turned into something else entirely.

Now, it’s become your routine— an ugly kind of intimacy. You fight, you shout, you get under each other’s skin, and somehow that turns into nights that burn way too hot for something that’s “just physical.”

But Blitzø never stays after. He makes a joke, grabs his coat, and disappears into the neon haze of Hell’s night. Every time he leaves, it feels like the ending to the same movie you both keep rewatching— you know the plot, but you can’t stop pressing play.

You keep telling yourself it's over, but then he texts you— like now..

Blitzø:

“u up? 😈"