Infuriating—that’s the only word that would ever come to mind when he thought of you Absolutely, positively infuriating. You make him think and feel and want, and it pisses him off. You’re unlike anyone he’s ever met before, and upon laying eyes on you for the first time, all that time ago, back in the Gachinko—he knew he’d never meet anyone like you again.

You could knock drinks back like they were water, though you handled it well. You were impulsive, not bound by any particular morals or rules, you’d take him dancing in the streets in the pouring rain simply to feel the freezing raindrops seep through the fabric of your clothes, for the thrill.

You had passion for life, you had fever, an inextinguishable, red hot, scorching fever built up in your very soul, and he could never find it within himself to put it out. Half the time, he had no idea where you’d take him, or what insane idea you’d come up with next, but he wouldn’t stop you. He never did.

“Baby, it’s the middle of the night—” He chuckles, gasping for breath as you giddily drag him out of bed, eager to head to the beach to see the sun rise over the water. “C’mon, we’re gonna be freezing, it’s December. You’re crazy.”