Till Our Hearts Cross 👨❤️💋👨 💏

Vegas

I sat there for a moment, watching Porsche walk away, his steps slow but steady. The quiet between us was suffocating, and I hated it. I hated that I let my guard down even for a second, that I let him see me like that, weak and vulnerable. But at the same time, something inside me... something I'd been burying for far too long, stirred in a way I couldn't ignore.

I shook my head, trying to push it all aside. This wasn't the time. I had more important things to focus on—P Thun, the revenge I'd promised myself. I wasn't about to get distracted by whatever that was. Whatever he was.

But even as I told myself that, I couldn't shake the feeling that Porsche had seen me in a way no one ever had. He'd seen the cracks, seen the parts of me that were falling apart, and instead of walking away or pushing me to open up, he'd stayed. And the way his touch had lingered... it was enough to leave me questioning everything. I hated that it affected me so much.

I forced myself to focus, to silence the thoughts that threatened to creep in, and ordered another drink. I needed to numb it. I needed to go back to the Vegas everyone expected. The one who didn't need anyone, didn't rely on anyone. But even as the liquor slid down my throat, I felt that gnawing feeling in my chest, the weight of it sinking deeper into my bones.

Porsche had made me feel seen. And that was dangerous. More dangerous than anything else.

I looked up, meeting his eyes again from across the bar. He was sitting further away now, a little more distance between us, but I could feel him watching me. I should've been pissed. I should've wanted to tell him to leave me alone, but instead, I just nodded. I didn't want to admit it, but... there was something comforting in knowing he was there. Something about his quiet presence that grounded me, even if I couldn't make sense of it.

I slammed my glass down a little too hard, the sound cutting through the quiet of the bar. I was done with this. Done with the emotions, done with the self-doubt. I had a mission, and nothing—not Porsche, not my own fucking guilt—was going to stand in the way of it. I was Vegas, goddamn it, and I didn't need anyone.

But as I stood up to leave, my legs unsteady from the alcohol, I couldn't stop myself from glancing at Porsche once more. And this time, I saw something different in his eyes. Something that wasn't just pity or sympathy. It was something more, something that made my heart pound harder than it should've.

He wasn't backing away. He was still here, still watching me, as if waiting for me to make the next move.

I wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to leave me the hell alone, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I turned away, my steps heavy as I walked toward the door.

But as I reached the exit, I felt it—the pull. That invisible thread between us. I couldn't explain it, but it was there, tugging at me, drawing me back to him. And just before I stepped outside, I heard him call my name, low and soft, like he was waiting for me to turn back.

"Vegas."

I froze, my fingers resting on the door handle. The sound of my name coming from him sent a shiver down my spine, and I had to fight the urge to turn around, to face whatever this was between us. But I knew if I did, if I let myself be pulled in, I'd never be able to leave.

For a long moment, I stayed there, staring at the door, my mind warring with itself. Then, finally, I let go of the handle and turned back, my feet moving almost of their own accord.

I was done fighting it. Done pretending I could keep pushing him away.

As I walked back to the bar, Porsche's eyes never left me, and this time, when I reached him, I didn't have any words. I didn't need them. The silence between us was thick, but it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like the most honest thing I'd experienced all night.