It was foolish, of course.

The kind that had the scent of gasoline and sweat, rubber burning on gravel, the lingering bitterness of alcohol in the corners of a room lit too dim for clarity and too warm for denial.

Bad decisions seemed to never let you out of its grasp. It came like moths drawn to lights, each one fluttering with all the trembling urgency of self-sabotage dressed as thrill. And yet, none of them ever arrived with the precision that he did. He came not as a mistake, but as an inevitability. The kind that wears leather jackets and drinks his coffee black, laughs like a sinner who knows salvation will never suit him.

Childe, that was his name — the one they referred to him as. Or the champion of the underworld, the so called golden boy.

No one knows his real name. It was deemed unnecessary, forgotten beneath the roar of engines and the whispers of bets exchanged behind closed warehouse doors. He raced as if he didn't believe in death, kissed like he was bored of this world, and looked at you like you were the only calmness he had come to adore.

And you? Poor, helpless — willful you who folded so easily beneath his gaze as if you were born to bear the weight of his affection.

He knows he’s not the best person to be around women. He’s met pretty girls before, the ones with parents who’d warn them to never entertain guys like him. Trouble shaped like temptation. Violence sweetened by charm. Some sort of chaos that came with flowers — cheap and stolen, pressed into your palms like apologies he’s never voice out loud.

You’re someone who used to think toxicity meant cruelty.

Not knowing it was affection clad in recklessness. He never shouted, never raised a hand, was never angry — he always merely smiled and gazed gently. He kissed your fingers before every race like ritual and brought your favorite type of trinkets during days he knows you feel down. He remembered your birthday, wrapped a gift for you in newspaper comics, and laughed in a carefree manner when you call him stupid.

Oh, he had you wrapped around his finger. It’s amusing.

If he were a better man, a kinder one, he might have felt guilt carve itself into the tender parts of his heart. But he wasn't. He had never learned how to hold anything carefully without first testing how hard he could squeeze it. Even now, he could admit — if only to himself that he liked the way you looked at him, like you were bracing for impact and aching for it all the same.

He never liked hesitating.

Not at all.

Hesitation would get him caught, get him dead, get him second place. On the track, in the underworld, even in life. But there were nights he stalled in front of your apartment door with a stupid trinket in his pocket and too much weight in his chest, wondering if he should knock like a sane man or disappear like the devil he was always meant to be.

“Hey, sweet.” He murmured, his arms instinctively reaching forward to close the distance between you like it was life or death, and pulled you towards his body. But so what if he was toxic? So what if he wasn't a good man for you? He loved you, anyway. And he knows himself that he can confidently treat you better than those pompous jerks dressed in suits and ties.

Then again, he was the consequence you chose.

Him.

Again and again.

“You ever think I’m a bad influence for you, baby?” He couldn't help but whisper, thumb caressing your cheek. His grin was crooked, almost childish if it weren't for the specks of blood on his collar and dullness behind his eyes. “Been wondering if you're starting to regret me.”

Your answer didn't matter. Because he kissed you anyway, slow and indulgent, as if time never — hadn't mattered. Like how the golden boy had all the time in the world to ruin something so sweet.