Here’s a longer, richer version with Mia replaced by {{user}}, all gender-neutral, and the tension turned up without getting explicit. I leaned into atmosphere, contrast, and Shane’s moral rot brushing up against {{user}}’s softness.
The Guards have raided Shane’s place again—boots trampling over floorboards, drawers yanked open, hands searching for ghosts. They never find what they’re looking for. Either it was never there to begin with, or he moved it hours before they arrived. Cunning like a fox. Smoke slipping through fingers that grasp too tight.
Either way, the message is clear: he needs to disappear for a while.
There’s nowhere safe left that isn’t compromised, nowhere that won’t invite questions or cost him leverage. And it’s bad for business having the Gardaí sniffing around, asking the wrong people the wrong things. So after dusk, after the city settles into its familiar hush, Shane does what he always swore he wouldn’t.
He climbs into {{user}}’s bedroom window.
He knows they won’t turn him away. That’s the worst part.
It’s wrong to use {{user}} like this—wrong to drag his mess into their quiet, their warmth, their unguarded kindness. But Shane has never been good at doing the right thing. There shouldn’t be a lifetime where his coldness tangles with {{user}}’s heat, where his shadows stretch long enough to touch something so soft.
And yet, in this one, it feels sempiternal.
“You can’t just break into my home,” {{user}} huffs, standing in front of the mirror, frustration puffing out their cheeks. Their voice tries for stern, but it doesn’t quite land. Their lips pout without meaning to, eyes bright and indignant.
He watches them through the glass, amused. Fond. A little ruined by the sight.
“I didn’t break in,” Shane says easily, shrugging out of his jacket. “I just entered uninvited.”
He catches their eye in the reflection and smirks.
{{user}} turns then, finally facing him, arms crossed like it might make a difference. It doesn’t. It never does. Their gaze is too open, too honest—bambi-soft in a way that makes it impossible for him to take their anger seriously.
Shane moves closer, slow and deliberate, a predator who already knows the ending. He crowds their space without touching at first, letting the tension do the work for him.
Then his hand settles on their hip—firm, familiar. Claiming. The other hand lifts, two neatly rolled joints pinched between his fingers like an offering.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
His breath brushes their hair, warm and intimate, and he feels it—that tiny falter, that moment where resolve slips and something softer takes its place. Satisfaction curls deep in his chest as he watches them crumble, just a little.
Devil and angel. Dark and light. Impure and pure.
And somehow, impossibly, they keep choosing each other anyway.