I follow her into the next room. Once we’re suited up in thick jumpsuits and protective eyewear, we let ourselves into a room that is filled with random, old shit. Old printers, ceramic plates, cheap, half-broken furniture, an old tube TV with a crack spidering across it.
Willow grips a bat like Babe Ruth possessed. With thisinsanegrin, she winds up andobliteratesa plate, shards flying everywhere. The sound she makes—half-growl, half-moan—goes straight to places I do not need activated while holding a sledgehammer.
“Feel better?” I ask, swinging my hammer into a printer, sending plastic shrapnel throughout the room.
“Better? I feel alive.” She smashes another plate. “You’re a damn genius.”
I shrug, pretending I’m not watching her every move. “Figured I’d give you something safer than… you know. Your usual hobbies. At least until you’re all the way ready.”
Her eyes cut sharply to mine. For a beat, it’s just us, surrounded by broken chaos. Dangerous, dark, and buzzing.
Then she smirks. “You saying you want to be my emotional support sledgehammer?”
“Kitten,” I say, voice low, “I’ll be whatever tool you need.”
Her lips thin and pinch together for just a second. And then she bursts out laughing. “Oh, my hell,tool?That’s what you’re going with?”
I groan, feeling my entire face flush, and bury my face in my elbow. “That sounded way hotter in my head.”
“Sure it did.” She slams another plate to pieces, still cackling. “But I guess if I had to say half of the comments I left you out loud, it would be pretty cringe as well.”
She laughs at me. She teases me. But it’s in the same breath that she admits that she wants me too.
I’ll fucking take it.
After an hour of destruction,we stumble out sweaty, ceramic-dusted, and grinning like idiots. The place is a ghost town; everyone else smart enough to go home after hearing a guy maim himself. I don’t even see the employee around.
We let ourselves out. “Hungry?” I ask as I take in a breath of that fresh, Las Vegas air.
“Starving,” she says, still grinning like this is the best day ever.
The little hole-in-the-wall diner I pick is supposed to be quiet, casual—perfect end-of-date vibes. Instead, it looks like every drunk bachelorette party on the Strip has decided to descend here at once. Music blares, people are yelling over each other, the line snakes out the door.
“Wow,” Willow says as we inch forward, her tone bone-dry. “Romantic.”
“Don’t mock me yet,” I mutter. “They’ve got the best late-night nachos in Vegas.”
We shuffle through the chaos, shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of frat boys chanting something about shots. By the time we finally make it to the counter, my ears are ringing from how damn loud it is.
We grab our food—greasy bags dripping queso, sodas sweating condensation—and turn to face the battlefield. Every table is packed. Half of them are standing room only, strangers double-stacked around booths. There isn’t even a corner of countertop open.
I glance at Willow. She looks down at the food in her hands, then up at me, and bursts out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full, can’t-stop, doubled-over snort.
“This is bad,” she barks. “Like, sitcom-level bad. You really brought me here to stand next to a drunk Elsa and eat nachos off a trash can?”
I glance over—sure enough, someone in a full Frozen costume is using the garbage bin as a table.
“What? This is going great,” I say. “Definitely the date of the century.”
She smirks, still trying to catch her breath. “Well, it started pretty top tier. But the ending?” she grimaces. “I have a few notes.”
I look around at our surroundings, but there’s nothing. No outdoor tables, no bus benches. Nada. “We could… head back to my place. Eat there. It’s quieter. Fewer drunk Elsas.”
There’s this weird little moment right after I suggest it. A moment where I feel like I’ve fucked up. Willow’s eyes snap to me, and instantly, she’s sobered. There’s wariness in her now. She’s pulled back, fun over.
“Not like that,” I rush to say. “I swear. Just… food. Talking. Somewhere without glow-stick bracelets and Bride to Be sashes.”
She studies me, eyes sharp, measuring. For a second, I think she’ll shoot me down. But then something in her expression softens. She nods her head. She tries to give a little smile, but it doesn’t quite work.
