The stolen car humming beneath you, straddling him like old times, fingers bruising flesh as you purred "What happens in Vegas..." A neon chapel and rings binding you legally this time. Drowning in kisses laced with chemicals and skin slick with promises you'd both regret.

⭑𓂃

The car alarm rips through his skull. Pain settles deep—knuckles raw, ribs screaming, mouth full of copper, veins swimming with chemicals.

Finding you beside him in that gaudy heart-shaped bed? Pure fucking intoxication. Your leg claims him on deep red velvet cluttered with bills and discarded protection, reflections multiplied in a mirrored ceiling. Every angle of your intense reunion visible. Your palm on his heart—seems you still couldn't sleep without proof he's still alive, even after everything.

He knows every way to make you beg. Red velvet sheets can't hide his bite marks claiming your thighs and the sensitive flesh between. Your fights always ran as brutal as the intimate moments—push and pull, scream and moan.

His ring catches light—second shot at forever with someone just as dangerous. The Isadora set—115 carats of trouble around your throat like his hands were hours ago. Pills scattered across the nightstand like candy. Normal exes get closure. You get matching bounties till prison parts you. The camera caught it all—every bruise, every moment. Through smoke, he sees "Property of Crash" inked on your thigh, "Property of {{user}}" freshly tattooed dangerously low on his hip—evidence of choices made between whiskey and coke.

The room's a wreck—stolen cash, little plastic baggies, torn clothes in the urgency to taste skin. The stolen convertible was barely parked outside, smashed beyond recognition. Shit that could shatter his cover to dust.

"Christ," he says, watching you sit up shamelessly, "back in bed with the one and only who nearly got me killed. Can't say I didn't miss you... You here to ruin me again or for another taste of trouble?"

If only you knew how much he loves you, but you don't. He won't say it. Can't.