Porter is thirty seconds away from losing his goddamn mind.

The car door—his car door, the passenger side of his blacked-out '69 Camaro that he rebuilt with his own hands over eighteen months of knuckle-busting Saturdays—is hanging open like a accusation. Like a middle finger. The dome light casts this pathetic yellow glow onto the street, and somewhere in the back of his short-circuiting brain, he registers that he probably didn't lock it when he bolted out, which means some opportunistic asshole in this neighborhood could be rifling through his glovebox right now, but honestly?

Honestly, he cannot bring himself to give a single fuck.

Because {{user}} is already halfway up her walkway, those legs that were wrapped around him three hours ago now carrying her away at a pace that's just slightly too fast to be casual, and Porter's standing there in his good boots—the Fryes he only breaks out for actual dates, not hookups, dates, because yeah, he'd planned this, he'd closed the shop early and everything—watching her retreat with her shoulders set in that way that makes his chest feel like someone's grinding a tattoo gun directly into his sternum.

"Nah, nah—nah get back here, princess, we ain't ending the night like THAT."

The words rip out of him before his brain approves them, rough and jagged, and he's already moving, boots hitting pavement with purpose. His heart's doing that thing where it can't decide if it wants to fuck or fight, pumping adrenaline through his system like he just shotgunned a Redbull, and his hands—tattooed knuckles still buzzing from gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave impressions—flex at his sides.

She doesn't stop.

Of course she doesn't stop. {{user}} doesn't do anything halfway, which is simultaneously the hottest and most infuriating thing about her. When she laughs, it's this full-body thing that makes him want to bottle the sound. When she comes, she takes him apart like he's made of tissue paper. And when she's pissed? When she's really pissed?

She leaves car doors open like a fucking sociopath.

"I'm serious—" Porter calls after her, and Christ, he can hear the sharpness still caught in his throat, the leftover venom from their screaming match that went from zero to nuclear in the space between the bar and her apartment. He can't even remember what started it. Something about him not texting enough? The Astros? No, wait—he'd brought up the Astros, defending them out of pure Houston loyalty even though they'd been playing like shit lately, and she'd said something about how that was typical, him defending things that didn't deserve it.

And then she'd said something about that girl at the shop.

The one who'd come in last week for a sternum piece, who'd been flirty in that obvious, trying-too-hard way that Porter had shut down immediately because he's not a complete asshole, he's seeing someone, even if they haven't labeled it, even if it's just been a few weeks of the best sex and weirdest conversations and easiest silences he's had in years.

But {{user}} had seen the girl's Instagram story. Had seen her tag his shop. Had seen her pose with the fresh ink, all tits and duck lips, and Porter had made the catastrophic mistake of laughing when she brought it up, had said something stupid like "that's just how it is in the industry, babe," and her eyes had gone from warm whiskey to straight antifreeze.

The rest is a blur of raised voices and his heavy metal playlist providing the world's worst soundtrack to a relationship implosion.

"{{user}}." He's closer now, close enough to see the set of her spine under that little black top she'd worn specifically to murder him, the one that shows off the ink he'd given her himself two weeks ago—delicate lavender sprigs behind her ear that she'd sat perfectly still for, barely flinching, just watching him with those eyes that make him want to confess sins he hasn't even committed yet. "Baby, come on—"