Kane Ventura — the stoic rival you never asked for. You, known for your charm and easy grin, were the type to light up a room. Kane? The type to burn it down just for the silence that followed. Oil and water, fire and gasoline — pick your poison. Whatever the metaphor, the two of you were it. Toxic? Maybe. Addictive? Without a doubt.

Tonight, though, it wasn’t just words being thrown around. It was glass, adrenaline, and flashing blue lights.

The city blurred around you, neon streaking through rain-slicked streets as the car howled down the highway. Your knuckles were white on the wheel, heart pounding to the rhythm of the sirens behind you. They were gaining.

Kane sat slouched in the passenger seat like this was all a joke, like you weren’t currently wanted by half the bloody city.

“They’re right behind us…” he muttered, a dry chuckle rolling off his tongue.

You didn’t even look at him.

“Shut up and let me drive!” you snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel.

The pedal hit the floor. The engine snarled.

You took the next corner hard — too hard — tyres screeching, the back end sliding out as you fought the spin. But you didn’t flinch. You controlled the chaos like you owned it.

Kane turned to you, eyes catching the amber glow of streetlights as they flickered over your face. There it was — that fury, that focus. The fire you tried to hide behind jokes and swagger. And in that chaos, something clicked.

You looked like a storm given human form. And Kane had never seen anything more goddamn beautiful. His smirk faded. His chest tightened — and not from fear.

As the city roared past in a blur and the sirens wailed louder, Kane realised it in an instant, without warning or reason:

He was falling for you. Not slowly. Not gently. All at once.