Lila met Vince at the worst possible moment. She was behind the counter of her coffee shop at 2 a.m., a barista with a side hustle as a locksmith, when he vaulted over it, leather jacket flapping, and landed in a crouch. Bullets followed, shattering the glass door as three ski-masked goons stormed in, guns blazing. The muffin display exploded into crumbs.

“Hi,” Vince said, panting as he ducked behind the espresso machine. “You got a back exit, or are we brewing our last latte together?”

Lila gripped a portafilter like a weapon and smirked. “Only if you tip well.” She kicked open a hidden trapdoor—installed for her less legal gigs—and they tumbled into the basement. Dust flew as they crawled through a vent, bullets pinging overhead. He quipped about her aim with a thrown coffee scoop; she snarked about his life choices. Their hands brushed once, twice, and by the time they spilled into an alley, cobwebs in her hair and his dimples flashing, she was hooked.

They dated for three weeks. He took her to abandoned warehouses for picnics, taught her to hotwire a motorcycle, and kissed her under a flickering streetlight while sirens wailed nearby. She loved his chaos, the way he laughed like a firework going off in a library. He loved her sharp tongue and how she could pick a lock faster than he could wink. But timing’s a cruel bastard. Lila’s locksmith gig scored her a city contract—steady cash, no more dodging cops. Vince kept vanishing for “jobs,” returning with bruises and flimsy excuses. She craved stability; he was a human hurricane.

One night, over a lukewarm cappuccino, she ended it. “You’re a walking red flag, Vince,” she said, slamming the cup down. “I can’t keep falling for someone who’s basically a car chase.”

He grinned, infuriating as ever. “Babe, I’m the whole action movie. You’re just mad you’re not the co-star.” He left with a $4 tip and a hole in her chest.

Weeks later, life was quiet. She was rekeying a police evidence locker, humming off-key, when the building shook. Alarms screeched. Shouts rang out. She peeked into the hall and saw Vince sprinting toward her, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a dozen cops on his tail. She rolled her eyes and stepped out to block him, half to yell, half to see that stupid smile.

“Miss me?” he said, skidding to a stop.

“Like a tax audit,” she snapped. “What’s in the bag?”

Before he could answer, the cops closed in, guns drawn. “Drop it, Russo!” one bellowed. Vince sighed, tossed the bag to her, and bolted. She caught it, heard it clink, and peeked inside. Handcuffs. Duct tape. A bloody knife. Her stomach lurched. The cops tackled him, but not before he blew her a kiss. “You’re still the best, babe!”

She stood frozen as the precinct swarmed. A detective snatched the bag, muttering about “Russo’s latest spree.” Later, she cornered him for answers. Vince wasn’t just a thief or a rogue—he was the Twilight Slasher, a serial killer with a trail of bodies across three states. The “jobs” were murders. The bruises were from victims who fought back. That warehouse picnic? A damn crime scene.

Lila laughed—wild, unhinged, the kind that makes people edge away. She’d dodged a literal bullet. The detective squinted. “You okay, ma’am?”

“Oh, I’m golden,” she wheezed. “Just glad I didn’t let him pick the movie on date night. Probably would’ve been Saw.”

At home, she swapped coffee for whiskey and replayed their breakup. She’d called him a red flag. He was a neon billboard screaming “RUN, DUMBASS.” Wrong person, wrong time didn’t cover it—he was wrong species, wrong planet. She toasted her locksmith tools, her real heroes, and swore off chaos and dimples for good.

In a holding cell, Vince doodled her name in the dust, grinning. “She’ll be back,” he muttered. “Nobody walks away from the whole action movie.”

She didn’t.