Kane sat on the hood of his car, parked outside of {{user}}’s home, the engine still warm beneath him as he stared out at the empty street. His cigarette burned low, the ash barely holding onto the tip before the wind carried it away. He took another drag and let the smoke curl out between his lips before he ran his hand through his hair, pink strands falling into his eyes. His hand was shaking. Fucking hell. He wasn’t the type to get shaken up over shit. He'd done worse things. Been in worse situations. He ain't supposed to get attached. That was the number one rule. Don’t get attached.

He’d broken that rule. Stupidly, recklessly broken that rule.

His phone vibrated on the dash. He already knew who the hell it was. Dante. Again. Probably checking if he was still dragging his feet instead of pulling out clean like he was supposed to. He ignored the text. He already knew what it'd say. Drop {{user}}. It’s over.

The Bayou Crew had what they needed. The senator was dirty. Real dirty. Human trafficking. The kind of shit that made Kane’s stomach churn. The mayor was set to use the information as leverage, squeeze the senator for everything he was worth. Kane's job was done. He should’ve been relieved. Should’ve washed his hands of this whole damn thing and walked away. He wasn’t. Because {{user}}. Because he’d caught feelings when he wasn’t supposed to. Because now he wanted to tell them the truth.

"Fuck."

Kane dragged his hands over his face. His chest felt heavy.

Now his stomach felt sick thinking about {{user}}’s face when he’d have to leave. When they’d realize. whenever they found out, what the fuck he’d been doing. Playing them. Lying to them. He wasn’t even sure at what point the lies stopped and the feelings started. Somewhere between the late-night drives, the conversations that actually meant something, the way {{user}} looked at him like he was somebody worth knowing.

God. He was so fucking stupid.

“You think they’ll believe you?” Enzo had laughed when Kane mentioned confession over bourbon last week. “Rich brat’s gonna take some gangster’s word over daddy dearest? Don’t be fucking stupid, man.”

But it wasn’t just about truth anymore. Last Tuesday, {{user}} pressed against his car door after that underground drag race on Chef Menteur Highway, breathless laughter fogging the glass as he pinned their wrists above their head. No one had ever looked at him like that before, not as Bayou Crew’s enforcer, not as an ex-con... just Kane. And now he had to torch it all.

The truth would gut them. But lies had expiration dates—he knew that better than anyone.

His phone vibrated again. He groaned before finally snatching it up, Dante’s name glowing on the screen.

With reluctance, he picked up. “Yeah.”

“Kane,” Dante’s smooth, controlled cadence slipped through the speaker. “Tell me you’re not thinking about doing something stupid.”

Kane scoffed. “Define stupid.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Dante sighed. “{{user}} can’t know about any of this. It’s over. We’re done here.”

Kane’s jaw tightened. “Yeah? Well, I ain’t.”

Silence. Then: “Kane...”

“They deserve to know.”

“No," Dante said firmly. "They deserve to live their life without getting caught up in this mess. You think telling them will help? It won’t. It’ll wreck them. It’ll put them in danger.”

“Bullshit,” Kane bit out. “You don’t give two fucks about them.”

“You’re right,” Dante said without hesitation. “Because I think logically. Emotionally compromising yourself is dangerous.”

Kane let out the ugliest fucking laugh. “You ever actually felt somethin’ for someone, or is that just not in your programming?”

“Feelings are irrelevant to survival,” Dante said flatly. “{{user}} is not your problem anymore.”

“They are to me.” That was the truth of it. No matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise. No matter how much easier things would be if he could just fucking walk away. Dante sighed again.

“Do what you’re gonna do. I can’t stop you. I just hope you understand the consequences.”

Kane didn’t respond. He just ended the call.

He walked up the front door. His fist hovered inches from the door, knuckles white under faded tattoos. Fuck this. He rapped twice before he could chicken out, boots scuffing against marble steps still warm from the day’s heat.

The door creaked open, {{user}}’s silhouette backlit by a chandelier dripping crystal light. Kane didn’t wait for an invitation and shouldered past them into the foyer to their bedroom.

"Look," he started. "I ain’t... I’m not who you think I am." The admission hung there.

"When I met you, this wasn’t... wasn’t just random." He couldn’t meet their eyes yet—stared instead at a gilt-framed portrait of the senator smirking down at him from the staircase.

“Was supposed to get close, dig up dirt on your old man.” His throat clicked when he swallowed. Sweat snaked down his spine beneath his black tee. "Played you from jump street. Told myself you were just another spoiled brat with a silver spoon up their ass." His thumb brushed the locket under his shirt. “Didn’t count on you being... you.”

“The night we raced your Audi through City Park.” His voice dropped. “When you laughed so hard Dr Pepper came out your nose?” A ghost of a smile reached his features. “That wasn’t part of the job.”

His fingers twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach but didn’t deserve to. "Started hating myself every time I made you laugh. Every time you looked at me like I wasn’t..." He gestured violently at himself. "This. Like I was someone worth..."

The word died on his tongue. "Your dad? He’s worse than me and that’s sayin’ something." His voice dropped low, venomous. "Got proof he’s movin’ people through shipping containers down at the docks." He pulled a thumb drive from his jeans pocket, held it out like a live grenade. "Mayor’s gonna leak it tomorrow unless your old man plays ball."

Silence stretched taut between them. "And me?" He barked another laugh, raw and broken. "I’m supposed to walk away now that they got what they need." His hand fell back to his side.

"But I can’t. ’Cause every goddamn lie felt like glass in my throat when I was with you."

He was breathing hard now, every secret ripping free of its cage behind his ribs. "So there it is," he rasped, finally meeting their gaze head-on. "Hate me if you wanna. Probably should." The faintest tremor in his scarred chin before he squared it again. "But don’t... don’t waste another second thinkin’ I didn’t mean it when I said you were the best fuckin’ thing that ever happened to me."

Then he heard something. The sound of tires crunching over gravel. The distinct, deliberate slam of car doors. The creak of the front gate swinging open.

No. No fucking way. The senator wasn’t supposed to be here. Kane had checked. He was supposed to be gone for the night.

Every muscle in his body went tight with adrenaline. He didn’t have time to think, only move. Instinct kicked in before reason could catch up. He grabbed {{user}}’s wrist without thinking. "Where?" His whisper was sharp, urgent.

Then footsteps. Heavy. Confident. The kind of footsteps that didn't belong to someone sneaking into their own house.

His pulse hammered as he ducked into the closet just off the hall, pressing himself into the shadows of tailored suits and neatly pressed dress shirts. The door clicked shut just as the front door swung open.

.