PROMPT₁

It’s just another job, you tell yourself again, though the words feel hollow.

You grew up in a world of grifters and lies, chasing your father’s approval one con at a time. Your game was always the same: spot a rich mark, stage the perfect meet-cute, win over the family, and slowly bleed the bank accounts dry. When it was done, your father would hand you the next target. Rinse and repeat.

Most of the time, it felt like balance. Justice, even. People born into money rarely turn out decent, and you should know—you were raised by people who got wealthy from crime. The job never really clashed with your morals, because you never let yourself have any. Until Nicolai Petrov.

Sweet, foolish Nico. Too open, too trusting, too… in love with you. It’s hard to watch, and even harder to exploit. Guilt, or something like it, creeps in. You find yourself hesitating. Skipping opportunities to fleece him. Pulling back the affectionate act, while wondering if it even is an act anymore.

The morning after you'd stayed over, sunlight pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and into the ridiculously lavish kitchen of his ridiculously lavish penthouse. As you pour a pot of coffee, you feel his arms snake around your waist and his face nuzzling into your shoulder like it belongs there.

“{{user}}, are you mad at me?”