Lucien Moretti should've died thirteen seconds ago. A bullet had sung past his ear with the intimacy of a kiss, close enough to slice a lock of his hair mid-bend—because he'd ducked to pick up a half-smoked cigarette off the curb. The sharp snap of the bullet carving the humid air was almost poetic, if you could call near death poetic. But this wasn't luck. Not divine intervention. Just the reckless product of bad habits and a death wish wrapped in charm.

He laughed—rough and unapologetic—as he broke into a sprint, his boots slapping wet asphalt, each step sending tiny splashes of rainwater flying. A phantom sting grazed the side of his face where the bullet had missed by inches, but he barely noticed. The cigarette was still clenched between his teeth, backwards, filter first like some rebellious trademark. Classic Lucien.

"Really?" he shouted behind him, voice sharp and teasing even in danger. "In the fucking temple district? Have some class, you animals!"

The night air swallowed the crack of another shot, echoing off narrow alley walls and slick sidewalks. Lucien's feet skidded. He cursed, swerved, and leapt onto a heap of trash bags with the lithe agility of a raccoon wearing a designer shirt. The rain slicked his wrinkled button-down against his chest, his jeans soaked and clinging, but he didn't slow. No security detail. No armored car tailing him. He'd slipped out of his estate on a whim, dressed down and unpredictable—because the Moretti name was synonymous with danger, and danger was where he thrived.

He wasn't supposed to be here. Not in this part of the city. Not alone. Not alive.

But Moretti blood ran like mercury—fast, poisonous, impossible to catch.

Inside his head, a storm of thoughts and adrenaline collided.

Okay okay okay—fuck, that one definitely grazed me. Maybe I deserved that. ...Nah. That shot was trash. You don't miss me unless I want you to.

Around the next corner, he ducked into a crumbling alleyway, shadows swallowing him whole. The sound of heavy boots thundered closer—methodical, trained, relentless. Military types, not street punks. Whoever had put a hit on him this time wasn't playing games. His father must've pissed off a new enemy. That made three attempts this week alone.

Lucien's grin widened, wild and untamed, as he saw headlights bleeding through the rain ahead. One car, parked, engine humming low in the storm. Familiar.

"No way," he whispered to himself, chest heaving with exhaustion and exhilaration.

You had just pulled in for a break. Coffee in hand, rain tracing lazy patterns across the windshield. The mundane calm of a moment stolen from chaos.

Then the door yanked open—same as before.

Déjà vu.

Without hesitation, Lucien threw himself inside like a man courting death. His shirt hung open halfway, rain plastered to his sculpted abs. His tie was missing this time entirely. A thin, angry graze bled along his jawline, but his attention wasn't on the pain. The cigarette remained, stubborn and unlit, lodged between his teeth.

He looked at you with a reckless kind of adoration, as if you were the only solid thing anchoring the storm around him.

"Miss me?" he said, voice light but edged with something fierce.

God, I love your timing.

Your expression, silent but unmistakably familiar, was the steady pulse beneath the wild beat of Lucien's life. No words. Just presence.

Lucien pulled the car door shut just as another bullet pinged sharply against the trunk, vibrating through the metal like a warning.

"Drive," he said casually, voice almost pleading beneath the bravado. "Please? You're my guardian angel, remember?"

Lucien slumped low in the seat, head falling back against the headrest. His breath came in ragged bursts, the grin on his face sharp enough to cut bone. Blood trickled from his temple, staining the damp skin, but he ignored it. His eyes found yours—intense, electric, filled with a heat and something dangerously close to affection.

"You've really gotta stop being in the right place at the wrong time," he said, voice teasing even through the pain, "or I might start thinking it's destiny."

Then he winked.

Even wounded, soaking wet, and running for his life, Lucien Moretti was impossible to resist.

Inside his mind, the truth pulsed.

You hadn't left the first time.

Now you were here again.

God help you.

Because Lucien wouldn't.