Chapter Text
— ACT I —
THE SPARK
The rain taps against the window like it’s trying to get in, a relentless, whispering rhythm. Matty watches it blur the neon glow of Paris, the city smudged into streaks of cold light. He takes a drag of his cigarette, the ember burning bright in the dim room.
Their hotel room is a cave of half-packed suitcases and discarded room service trays, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and Taylor’s perfume. She’s pacing, her socks silent against the worn carpet, her voice sharp with the kind of frustration that only comes from reading your own bad reviews out loud. "'Lacking depth.' 'Overproduced.' 'Swift’s latest effort feels like a museum exhibit—pretty, but hollow.'" She snorts, tossing her phone onto the bed like it’s personally offended her. "A museum exhibit. Like I’m some fucking relic."
He should say something. Something clever, something that’ll make her laugh. But the words stuck in his throat because, fuck, he gets it. The way they talk about her, like she’s some polished statue, something to be admired but never felt. Like she’s not still the girl who wrote songs on her bedroom floor, who screamed lyrics into the void just to hear herself exist. He wants to tell her that, but he’s never been good at the serious shit. So he smirks instead, and keeps flipping through the Paris guidebook in his hands, and pretends he’s not already plotting how to burn the whole world down for her.
"Critics, love. They’re all just pissed they’ll never get a song written about 'em," he says, his attention snagged by a glossy photo of the Louvre, the glass pyramid winking under the Parisian sky. "Oi, we should go here. Steal you a tiara or somethin’. Cheer you up."
"Shut up, Matty."
"Well, it’d really piss off the critics, wouldn’t it? If we robbed the fucking Louvre. Just walked in, nicked some jewels, left a note. 'For the haters. Love, T & M.'"
He expects her to tell him to shut up again. To laugh.
But she doesn’t laugh. She stops pacing, her reflection flickering in the rain-streaked window. For a second, she’s just a shadow, all sharp edges and restless energy. Then she turns, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that makes his smirk slip. "We could actually do it," she says, voice low. Too quiet. Like she’s been thinking it for hours, instead of just a few seconds.
Matty blinks. The guidebook slides from his fingers, landing open on the page, the Louvre’s grand halls staring up at them. "What?" he says, but he already knows. He can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers twitch like she’s already sketching plans in her head.
Her eyes are like that first drag of a cigarette; burning, intoxicating, impossible to look away from. He’s seen her like this before. Not often, but enough to know that when Taylor gets that look, the world better fucking move, because she’s already decided how it ends. And Christ, if that isn’t the most terrifying, thrilling thing he’s ever seen.
"Rob the Louvre." She says it slowly, like she’s tasting the words. "Not for the jewels. For the fucking principle."
He wishes she were joking, but he knows better. He knows her. Knows the way the air in the room shifts, the way Taylor’s eyes have lit up like a lightbulb. The Louvre. The fucking Louvre. It’s the kind of idea that should be ridiculous, the kind of thing you laugh off over another bottle of wine. But the way she’s looking at him now—like he’s just handed her a match and a can of petrol—he realizes it’s not a joke at all. It’s a plan. And plans, with Taylor, are never just plans. They’re obsessions.
"Yeah, love, let's rob the fucking Louvre. What's the worst that could happen? Oh wait—prison. Forever." He shakes his head. "I mean, seriously, Taylor—"
"Think about it," she cuts in, her voice a blade, sharp and gleaming. "In and out before noon. No guns. Just power tools, a bit of theatrics. We’d never get caught. Not if we did it right."
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air electric. "You’re fucking mental," he says, but there’s no conviction in it. Because he can see it too—the thrill of it, the chaos, the way it would feel to walk out of that museum with the world’s most expensive jewels in their pockets and a middle finger raised to every critic who ever doubted her.
She steps closer, her knee brushing his. "Say it again," she murmurs. "Tell me I’m mental."
He should. He should. But the words die in his throat, because the truth is, he’s already imagining it. The adrenaline. The risk. The way she’d look at him afterward, like he’s the only person in the world who understands her.
He picks up the guidebook, the Louvre’s photo staring up at them like a dare. "Fuck," he mutters.
Taylor smiles. It’s not a nice smile. "So we’re doing it?"
He lights a cigarette, the flare of the lighter the only light in the room. The flame flickers, casting shadows over her face that make her look like a ghost. Or maybe a thief. Maybe both. He should be scared. He is scared. But the way she’s smiling at him—like he’s the only person in the world who’d follow her into this madness—makes his chest tighten. He grins. "We’re fucking doing it."
~
The hotel suite becomes a war room.
Taylor spreads maps across the bed, blueprints copied from shady online forums, scribbled notes in margins so tight and precise they look like incantations. She traces the Louvre’s floor plan with her finger, muttering under her breath—security cameras, guard shifts, emergency exits. The city outside doesn’t exist anymore. Neither does sleep. Neither does he, sometimes, except as a pair of hands to hold her coffee or light her cigarettes when her own are too busy circling dates on a calendar, calculating the exact window between shift changes.
The room smells like ink and stale coffee, like the kind of obsession that eats you alive. He watches her trace the blueprints, her fingers moving like she’s memorizing the pulse of the place. It’s terrifying, the way she’s inside it already; like the Louvre isn’t just a building, but a living thing, and she’s learning how to make it bleed. He should tell her to stop. He should remind her that this isn’t one of her songs, that there’s no rewriting the ending if it goes wrong. But the way her pen digs into the paper, like she’s carving their names into the walls, makes his throat go dry. She’s never looked more alive.
Matty watches from the armchair, his guitar silent in his lap. He should be worried. He is worried. But there’s something else, too, something dark and hungry coiling in his chest every time she bites her lip in concentration. It’s the same feeling he gets before a show, when the crowd is a roaring beast and the stage is a cliff’s edge. The thrill of knowing you could fall, and jumping anyway. Only this time, the fall isn’t metaphorical. This time, there’s no net. And fuck, maybe he's gone completely mad, because it only makes him want it more, want her more. Because Taylor’s always been fire, and he’s always been the idiot who steps too close, waiting to burn.
"You’re scaring me, Swift," he says, voice rough. It’s not entirely a lie.
She doesn’t look up. "Good." A slow, dangerous smile curls her lips. "Maybe you should be scared."
Her smile is all teeth, sharp enough to draw blood. He remembers the first time he saw her like this, backstage at some awards show, her eyes bright with the kind of fury that comes from being underestimated. She’d written a song that night, something vicious and beautiful, and he’d known then that she was dangerous. But this? This is different. This isn’t a song. This is a heist.
He reaches for her, pulls her onto his lap before she can protest. She’s all sharp edges and restless energy, her heartbeat too fast against his palm. "You haven’t slept in three days, love." His thumb brushes the smudge of ink on her cheekbone. "You look like a ghost."
She tilts her head, eyes bright with something feverish. "Ghosts don’t get caught."
He should argue. He should remind her that ghosts do get caught; by the light, by the past, by the things they can’t outrun. But the words die in his throat, because the truth is, he doesn’t want to stop her. He wants to be the one who keeps up. The one who’s there when the world catches fire.
"What happens if we do get caught?" he asks, quieter now.
Taylor leans in, her breath hot against his ear. "We won’t."
~
Later that evening, he finds her hunched over the blueprints like a priestess over sacred text, her hair falling into her face, her knuckles white around her pen. The lamplight carves shadows under her eyes, turning her into something other. She looks like she’s been possessed. By the heist. By the thrill. By whatever dark thing has sunk its teeth into her and won’t let go.
He kneels beside her, the carpet rough under his knees, pressing a fresh cup of coffee into her hands. "You’re gonna burn out before we even get to the Louvre," he murmurs, his voice filled with something that isn’t just concern. It’s awe. It’s fear. It’s the sick, twisting realisation that he’s never seen her like this—so alive, so dangerous—and it terrifies him how much he likes it.
She doesn’t look up. "I don’t have time to burn out."
He catches her chin, tilts her face toward his. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, like she’s already halfway inside the museum. "Taylor." His voice is gentle, but a warning nonetheless. "You need to sleep."
She laughs, sharp and breathless. "I’ll sleep when we’re on the plane out of here."
He should argue. Should throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bed, force her to get some rest. But instead, he presses his mouth to hers, kissing her hard enough to bruise. She kisses him back, desperate and hungry, her hands fisting in his shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself to him.
When they pull apart, her lips are swollen, her breath unsteady. "Are we making a mistake?" she whispers.
He doesn’t hesitate. He cups her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. "It’s not too late to turn back," he says, his voice soft, tender.
She exhales shakily, her forehead pressing against his. "I don’t know if I can stop."
He smiles, dark and knowing. "Good. Neither can I."
~
When he wakes the next morning, the bed is cold beside him, the sheets still rumpled from the night before. He finds her already dressed, her silhouette sharp against the grey Parisian light, standing by the window, watching the rain. She looks like a statue, something carved from marble and tension, her fingers tracing the edges of the Paris guidebook like it’s a map to their downfall. The page is open to the Louvre, her thumb tracing the photo of the glass pyramid, as if she could will herself inside it just by touching the paper.
He sneaks up behind her, his bare feet silent on the carpet, and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him, feeling the way her body tenses for just a second before she melts into him. He presses his lips to the nape of her neck.
"You’re trembling," he murmurs.
"I’m not scared," she lies.
He knows she is. He is, too. But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he holds her tighter, his arms a cage, a shield, a promise he’ll do anything to keep. Like he can protect her from what’s coming, from what they’re going to do. Like he can protect her from the fallout, from the consequences, from the way the world will look at them if they’re found out.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, a curtain of silver and grey, washing Paris clean of everything but their reflection in the glass. The city forges on, oblivious.
And in the quiet of the hotel room, they plan their ruin.
~
The jazz bar is all dim lights and cigarette smoke, the kind of place where the air is thick with secrets and the whiskey burns going down. George is already there, nursing a drink in the corner, his sharp eyes flicking between them as they slide into the booth. Taylor doesn’t waste time. She unfurls the blueprints across the table, the Louvre’s labyrinthine halls spread out like a challenge. "Okay, so here’s the plan," she says, tapping a finger against the entrance. "We go in early. We're out before the first tour group arrives. Power tools, motorcycles, no guns. Clean."
George doesn’t even glance at the plans. He just sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s already regretting this conversation. "You’re both completely insane." He finally looks up, pinning them with a stare that’s equal parts exasperation and resignation. "Do you have any idea how many things could go wrong? Security systems, armed guards, the entire French police force—"
Matty watches George’s face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his glass. He knows that look. It’s the same one he’s seen in the mirror a hundred times; the mix of exhilaration and dread that comes right before you do something stupid. Right before you jump.
Matty flicks his lighter, the flame casting shadows across Taylor’s determined face as he lights his cigarette. "So?" he interrupts, exhaling smoke. "When’s that ever stopped us?"
George’s jaw tightens. "This isn’t some spontaneous gig or a drunken brawl. This is armed robbery. This is prison. This is fucking up the rest of your life."
Taylor’s fingers tighten around her martini glass, her knuckles white. "We’re not hurting anyone."
"People get hurt in heists, Taylor." George’s voice is low, serious. "Even the clean ones."
Matty feels the weight of George’s words, the way they settle over the table like a shroud. And okay, he's fucking terrified, but the way Taylor’s sitting beside him, her spine straight, her chin lifted—like she’s already made her peace with whatever comes next—makes his pulse kick up. She’s never looked more alive.
Matty leans back, draping an arm around Taylor’s shoulders. "We’ll be fine." He grins, but it’s all teeth, no warmth. "Besides, we’ve never played by the rules. Why start now?"
George takes a slow sip of his drink, then sets it down with deliberate finality, the glass hitting the table like a verdict. "Fine. But we’re bringing Charli."
The name hangs in the air like a grenade pin pulled.
Taylor’s grip on her glass turns lethal. "No."
"Yes." George doesn’t flinch. "You need someone who doesn’t give a fuck. Someone who won’t freeze when shit goes sideways. That’s her."
Matty feels Taylor’s body go rigid beside him, her anger a live wire, crackling with enough voltage to light up the room. He squeezes her shoulder, a silent warning—or maybe a plea. He knows how she feels about Charli. Knows the history, the tension, the way they circle each other like wolves. But George is right. They need her.
Taylor’s eyes flash. "She’s unpredictable."
"Exactly." George leans in, his voice dropping. "You want this to work? You need her."
"He’s right, love," Matty says slowly.
He can see the battle in Taylor’s eyes. The calculation, the resistance, the slow, reluctant acceptance. She’s already running through the scenarios, already seeing Charli’s smirk, her chaos, the way she’ll push them all to the edge and laugh while they jump.
Finally, she glares at him, then at George. "Fine." The word is a blade. "But if she fucks this up—"
"She won’t." George smirks, but there’s no humour in it. "Charli doesn’t fuck up."
Taylor exhales sharply, her nails digging crescents into her palm. "Then we’re really doing this."
George raises his glass. "God help us all."
~
The warehouse is full cracked concrete and rusted metal. The air smells of rain and gasoline. A single bulb swings overhead, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Taylor stands by the worktable, her arms crossed, her body coiled tight as a spring. The blueprints are spread out in front of her. The air smells like rain and gasoline, like the kind of bad idea that starts with a dare and ends with handcuffs.
The door creaks open.
Charli saunters in like she owns the place, chewing gum, smirking like she already knows she’ll win. She’s all leather and attitude, her boots clicking against the concrete. "Well, well," she drawls, her gaze flicking over the room before landing on Taylor. "If it isn’t America’s sweetheart, plotting a felony."
Taylor doesn’t look up from the blueprints. "Glad you could make it, Charli. Thought you might be too busy recording another song about how edgy you are." Her voice is cool, controlled, but there’s an edge to it, something sharp enough to draw blood.
Charli's responding smile is the kind of grin that promises trouble before it even starts. Matty knows that look. He's seen it a hundred times before; backstage, in studios, in the middle of some drunken argument at three in the morning. It's the look of someone who lives for the chaos. Taylor, though? Taylor's glare is so sharp it could cut. Taylor doesn't do chaos. She controls it. And right now, she's one wrong word away from snapping.
Finally, Charli shrugs. "At least my songs don’t sound like they were written in a high school diary," she says, then she pops her gum, the sound echoing in the empty space.
Matty steps between them before Taylor can retort, slinging an arm around Charli’s shoulders. "Alright, alright. We’ve got an art gallery to rob, not a feud to reignite." He turns his head to grin at her, nudging her with his elbow. "Missed you, trouble."
Taylor scoffs, and Charli rolls her eyes but leans into him briefly. "Missed you too, Healy."
George, who’s been quietly organising tools in the corner, finally looks up with a sigh. "Can we please focus? Or do I need separate you all like children?" He pins Charli with a look. "And you—stop winding her up."
Charli smirks at him. "No promises, husband."
Matty watches George rub his temples, and wonders, not for the first time, if they're all completely mad.
Probably.
"If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right," Taylor says. "No improvising, no chaotic energy, no—" She shoots a pointed look at Charli. "—distractions."
Charli mimics zipping her lips, though her eyes spark with mischief. "Scout’s honor."
Matty snorts. "You were never a Scout."
"Details," Charli says, winking at Taylor. "But fine. I get it, Barbie. I’ll be good. Mostly."
Charli's grin is pure trouble, the kind that promises mayhem and delivers every time. Taylor's glare could kill, but there's a flicker of something else there. Respect, maybe. Or at least the acknowledgement that Charli's the only one here who might be just as unhinged as she is. Matty grins. This is going to be a disaster. He can't fucking wait.
"We’re running out of time," George says. "Taylor, walk us through it again."
Taylor hesitates, then turns back to the blueprints, her voice all business. "We go in early. Power tools for the cases, bikes for the escape, no guns. Nobody gets hurt."
Charli leans over the table, tracing the route with her finger. "And if something goes wrong?"
Taylor’s jaw tightens. "It won’t."
"Famous last words," Charli mutters, but she’s grinning.
Matty watches them, the tension still crackling but softer now, familiar, like the kind of bickering that comes from too many tours and too much history. This is how it’s always been with Taylor and Charli, oil and fire, but never boring.
George claps his hands together. "Alright. Let’s get to work."
And just like that, the team is assembled. Uneasy, but in it together.
The warehouse is alive with the kind of energy that comes right before something reckless. A gig, a heist, a disaster waiting to happen. The blueprints are spread out like a dare, the tools gleaming under the single bulb. The room buzzes with anticipation, and fear, and the kind of thrill that makes you feel alive even as it's killing you. Matty looks around at them. Taylor, all sharp edges and determination. Charli, grinning like she's already won. And George, resigned but loyal, and looking at Matty with the kind of expression that makes him realise, with a sick sort of certainty, that they're about do something stupid.
And fuck, if that isn't the most exciting thing he's felt in years.
~
Matty looks on as Taylor stands over the blueprints, her finger tracing the route for the tenth time, while Charli lounges against the worktable, swinging a pair of bolt cutters like they’re a prop in a music video.
"Okay, let’s run through it again," Taylor says, her voice clipped. "We arrive at 9:30AM sharp. The guards rotate at 9:15, but the first tour group doesn’t show until 9:45. That gives us a window—"
Charli rolls her eyes. "Or we could just smash the fucking window in and save ourselves the drama."
Matty snorts from his spot against the wall, where he’s been watching the two of them like it’s his favourite reality television show. "I like that. Let’s just smash the fucking window in," he echoes, grinning.
Taylor whips her head toward him, her glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Matty, be fucking serious please."
"I am serious," he says, pushing off the wall and sauntering over. "I’m just saying, if we’re gonna do this, may as well do it with style."
"Style?" Taylor repeats, her voice dangerously calm.
"Yeah, you know," Matty says. "Like a proper robbery. None of this sneaking around bollocks. Smash, grab, go."
"Style," Charli cackles. "I knew I liked you for a reason."
"Well, style doesn’t much matter if you’re serving a life sentence in prison, does it?" Taylor snaps, turning back to the blueprints. "We go in quietly. Like professionals."
"Professionals," Charli repeats, deadpan. "Right. Because we’re professionals."
Charli and Taylor lock eyes, the air between them crackling with something that’s either murderous intent or the kind of tension that could set the room on fire.
Matty watches them, grinning. "You two are either gonna kill each other or kiss. No in-between."
Charli smirks. "I’d definitely rather kill her, thanks."
Taylor doesn’t even look up. "I’d rather let you try."
George, who’s been quietly checking the power tools, finally looks up with a sigh. "Can we just focus?" he says, pinning them all with a look. "Taylor’s right. We cut the window, we disable the alarms, we get in and out before anyone even knows we’re there. Clean."
Charli groans. "Ugh, fine. But if we’re doing this your way, Matty and I at least get to pick the music for the drive there."
Taylor ignores her, tapping the blueprint. "The lift gets us to the window. Matty and I cut the windows open and get inside. Once we’re in there, we threaten the guards—verbally—until they back off. Then we cut open the cases, grab the jewels, and meet you two outside with the bikes. We need to be out by 9:40, latest."
"And if the guards don’t back off?" Charli asks, raising an eyebrow.
"They will," Taylor says, her voice leaving no room for argument.
"Right, but if they don’t?" Charli presses. "What, we just ask them nicely?"
Matty grins. "We improvise."
Taylor shoots him a look. "No improvising."
"No fun," Charli mutters.
George rubs his temples. "We stick to the plan. Taylor and Matty go in, grab the jewels, and get out. Charli and I handle the lift and the bikes. No detours, no improvising, and absolutely no smashing windows."
Charli sighs dramatically. "You’re all so boring."
"We’re thieves," Taylor says. "Not rockstars."
"Speak for yourself," Matty says, winking at Charli. "I’m both."
Charli grins back. "Damn right."
Taylor rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns back to the blueprints. "Let’s run it again. Properly this time."
Matty leans against the table, watching her with a mix of amusement and something darker. She’s terrifying like this, he thinks.
And so, so sexy.
George claps his hands together. "Alright. One more time. And this time, let’s try not to have any bitch fights, alright?"
Charli smirks. "No promises."
~
The hotel room is bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, the kind of light that makes everything feel like a dream. The rain taps against the window, a slow, relentless drumming, like the city is holding its breath. Taylor stands by the glass, her silhouette sharp against the neon glow of Paris, her fingers trembling around a half-empty glass of whiskey. He's not sure if it's from fear—fear that she’d never admit to—or the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.
Matty watches her from the bed, a joint burning between his fingers, the smoke curling around his face like a halo of bad decisions. He’s always loved her like this; on the edge of something, her eyes bright with the kind of hunger that makes the rest of the world fade away. She is a storm gathering strength, and he is the idiot standing in the middle of it, waiting for the lightning to strike.
He pats his lap, his voice rough with smoke and something darker. "Come here."
She turns, her eyes wild and bright. She doesn’t hesitate, just crosses the room and straddles his lap, her hands gripping his shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself to him. To this. To the last quiet moment before everything changes.
He cups her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. "We don’t have to do this," he reminds her again, his voice a gentle murmur, even though they both know it’s a lie. Even though they both know there’s no turning back now. The second he’d said Louvre, the second she’d looked at him with that wild, hungry gleam in her eyes, there had been no turning back. This was Taylor. Always all in, always burning brighter than the rest of them. His gaze flicks over her face, memorising the way she looks right now; desperate, alive, his. And he knows, the world could burn around them, and he’d still choose this. Choose her.
Her lips part slightly like she’s already tasting the thrill of it. "Yes, we do."
And then she’s kissing him, hard and bruising, like she’s trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of him, the way his hands tangle in her hair. He kisses her back, just as desperate, just as hungry, because fuck, he’s been waiting for this—waiting for her—all day, ever since he watched her go all evil mastermind in that abandoned warehouse.
She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressing against his, her breath hot and unsteady.
"You’re gonna get us killed," he whispers, but even as he says it, he feels a smile curling his lips. Because the truth is, he’d follow her anywhere. Even off a cliff. Especially off a cliff.
She smirks. "Maybe."
~
She’s always been like this, he thinks, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. Always hungry. Always wanting more. World domination, billions of dollars, sold-out stadiums, none of it’s ever enough for her. It’s the thrill she craves. The edge. The fall. He thinks she might be some kind of genius. A mad, brilliant, terrifying genius who’s dragged him into this with nothing but a smirk and a dare.
This isn’t the first time Taylor has dragged them into something reckless, it’s just the first time it’s felt like a point of no return. There was the time in Tokyo, when she’d hacked into the hotel’s reservation system just to prove she could, rerouting another pop star’s penthouse suite to her own name for a night of chaos and room service on someone else’s dime. Or the Vegas incident, where she’d picked the lock of a high-stakes poker game just to sit at the table, smirking at the confusion of the dealers before slipping away with a single, stolen chip as a souvenir. And who could forget the time she’d convinced Matty to help her swap the lyrics of a rival’s Billboard submission with a page of her own handwritten verses, just to watch the industry scramble? Little things. Harmless, really. Just Taylor stretching her mind, flexing her genius, proving she could outsmart anyone. But this? This isn’t a game. This isn’t a bit of fun. This is the fucking Louvre.
He kisses her again, deeper this time, his hands roaming, pulling her closer like he can merge her into his skin, like he can make her a part of him. She moans into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching against his like she’s trying to climb inside him. Like she’s trying to burn them both alive.
"You’re unhinged," he murmurs against her lips, his voice rough with want, with awe.
She laughs, breathless, her teeth grazing his bottom lip. "And you love it."
Fuck. He does.
~
The joint burns out between them, forgotten. The whiskey glass tips over, spilling onto the carpet, but neither of them cares. Neither of them even notices. Because right now, there’s only this; the heat of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the way her hands fist in his hair like she’s trying to keep him from slipping away.
He flips her onto her back, his body covering hers, his mouth trailing down her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. She arches her back, a gasping, desperate sound escaping her lips. "Matty—"
"I’ve got you," he murmurs, because it’s the only thing he can promise. The only thing he knows. "I've always got you."
~
After, they lie tangled together, breathless and wrecked, the rain still tapping against the window, the city still buzzing outside, completely oblivious to what they’re about to do. Taylor traces idle patterns on his chest, her brain racing ahead, already planning, scheming, burning.
"We’re really doing this," she says, her voice quiet. Not a question. A confession.
He presses a kiss to her temple, his arms tightening around her. "Yeah, love. We are."
She smiles, slow and dangerous, and he knows. In her mind, she's already there. Already standing in the Louvre, already laughing in the face of the fallout.
He smiles with her, because somewhere between the rain and the whiskey, he’d somehow decided. If this is how he goes out, it’ll be fucking worth it.