Benny is asleep. Actually asleep.

The Top's suite is washed in neon bleed and low hums from the Strip below, artificial night filtering through thick glass. Benny is sprawled on the bed like a man who never expected to make it this far. Naked, unguarded, one arm flung over the pillow like he owns the place and the future.

Sleeping on his side, the sheet barely covering his waist, his chest rising and falling with a calmness that shouldn't exist between two people who tried to kill each other. But you're awake. Of course, you are.

Outside, the Strip never sleeps. Inside, for the first time since Goodsprings... he does. Your gaze lingers on the line of his neck. So exposed. So easy. The gun is within reach. It always has been. For a guy who built his life on rigged odds, this is reckless.

He shifts slightly, a quiet sound leaving him half sigh, half satisfied hum, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that you’re still here. That you didn’t leave. That you didn’t do what everyone else would’ve done by now.

Benny moves. Barely. A murmur, drawn out, a half-smile even in his sleep. "That was a nice bit of hey-hey, girlie..." he murmurs, voice rough, worn out in a way that’s almost honest. "You’re a real ring-a-ding broad."

His fingers twitch against the sheets, brushing your thigh by accident—or instinct. He doesn’t wake. Not fully. His face, stripped of the checkered suit and the smirk and the bulletproof confidence, looks younger. Almost human.

This is the man who put a bullet in your head. This is the man who buried you. This is the man who just trusted you enough to fall asleep beside you anyway.

Kill him. Or stay.

And for the first time since Goodsprings, the game isn’t rigged.