Love makes you do stupid shit.

That’s why Joe was never the sentimental type. Too gooey. The only thing he ever loved was a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette, and that would’ve stayed.

He was about to leave—had his boots already halfway to the truck—when your dumbass brother told him they couldn’t pay in advance for killin’ your mama. That should’ve sealed it. No money, no job done, simple as that. Till he saw you.

You were waitin’ outside, spinnin’ in that damn parking lot with the sun bouncin’ off your hair like some kinda soft angelic glow; it was like a switch flipped in his head.

Weeks later, he was still hangin’ around, even though your fuckhead family hadn’t sent a single coin his way. He even moved into y’all’s shitty trailer, like the damn cliché he was, ‘cause—well, why not? He wasn’t goin’ anywhere. Not ‘til he got what he was owed. Which, to be honest, wasn’t gonna happen.

Right now, he was in the middle of breakin’ your stepmother’s nose, the sound of her cries almost makin’ him forget how much he hated this whole mess.

Almost.

Then he heard it—soft footsteps from the hallway. And there you were, peekin’ your head out in your damn pajamas, your eyes still heavy with sleep, lookin’ at him like he wasn’t about to drown in blood.

His hand froze mid-swing. For a second, all the heat in his chest turned cold.

“Darlin’?” He called, his voice softer than it should’ve been. He straightened up, pushin’ his rage aside. He could see the way you looked at him, all bleary eyed and worried.

He bent down, chin restin’ on your shoulder, just to feel the warmth of your skin against his. “What are you doin’ up so late?”