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"THERE'S A PATCH OF ICE SHIMMERING UNDER THE SKY," Jeff Rosenstock sang on a Monday night in December, low and lively, letting the words chase each other through Trans-Pecos. "On the south corner of Bushwick, on the residential side."

A hand reached for hers.

"And I'm afraid I'll slip."

Their fingers laced together.

"Most days when it's cloudy, and all nights I stay inside." A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd of adults, belting out the lyrics with the fervor of a cult following. "But it's 2:30 on New Years' Day and outside, it's looking bright."

A haze of blue-purple light shrouded them into the soft sensation of punk music and everything New York could offer in the makeshift, living-room, DIY performance space in Ridgewood.

Intimacy. Privacy. Adventure.

Thrill.

That's what it was all about. In the beginning.

Before this.

"Vegas just showed up," he said, his lips grazing her ear with a faint laugh. "They'll all show, Star."

A satisfied smile curled at her lips. Yeah, in the beginning, there was a part of her that believed he was bluffing, lying, fucking with her. But there was also a part of her that knew he was unpredictable, a force to be reckoned with, and one hell of a person to clash with.

Nothing like the crystallized color of his eyes, nothing clear and clean, nothing pure or... perfect.

Blue wasn't trustworthy.

"Now they hold each other tight," the crowd crooned the last few words with a new feeling, a tenderness that took her breath away. "And stay in on winter nights..."

Each of them had their weaknesses, but Blue's flaws were fatal. It wasn't suspicion or impatience or detachment; it was deadlier, a mess of lies—strung together with that cool confidence that never thawed. If it wasn't so fucking infuriating, it would be sexy as hell.

A flick of her hair. A fleeting glance over her shoulder. A fierce collision with those charcoal eyes. 

Vegas.

They'd exchanged only a handful of words, but that one look was enough to leave her blood sizzling with temptation.

A grin tugged at her lips, his brows rose, her pulse spiked.

There was an unspoken dialogue, an unwritten language, an undiscovered conversation in those three little motions. It was always the little things. They didn't really need words.

Because in the end, they needed action.

Maybe Vegas understood.

When he passed them, heading toward the bar without hesitation, Blue chuckled in amusement. A trace of a taunt caressed her ear. "What's wrong, Star?"

Her eyes fluttered closed. Fuck him.

"Nothing."

"Mmm."

An arm roped around her waist, and as Blue tugged her into his chest, hips subtly grinding into her from behind, a soft sound of surprise left her lips. "Oh..."

"How much time do you think we have before the rest show up?" he murmured beneath the music, hands sliding down, down, down at a teasing pace.

"Enough."

Blue snickered. Fingers flirted at the hem of her dress. Knees buckled. "Mmm. I think we should get some air."

Air. Yeah.

As soon as they crashed out into the empty backyard, an icy chill lashed at her cheeks. Cold. It was fucking cold outside.

"Baby, it's cold outside," she muttered, but Blue caught the words, those fucking words, with a fiery kiss, and suddenly, it was anything but cold. It was hot.

Caught in the dead of winter, in a midnight bite, a fire laced through her veins. Blue hitched her dress up expertly, a cool smirk still toying at his lips, and plunged two fingers into her.

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah. It is fucking cold outside," he drawled softly, and her lips parted with a silent gasp of pleasure, fingers raking down his back to the waistband of his jeans, to the button, to the zipper, to his cock. "Mmm."

They did things fast and dirty, but that was just how they both were—quick, quiet, vulgar, fucking raw. Maybe Blue saw something in her that he saw in himself. Maybe that was why he picked her. Maybe he was lonely, lost, a little self-loathing.

Or maybe Blue knew that she wouldn't go down without a fight. Maybe he always knew, and maybe he fucking loved it.

She couldn't say she didn't.

When they shared a cigarette after, smoke curling in the space between them, those piercing blue eyes, wild with warnings, held her hostage. "Are you sure you're in?"

Those five flawless words.

Between five words, Blue could somehow say so much more, and she hated that about him. Between five words, Blue said a million other things, and she hated him for that.

"Yeah." A cold smile captured her lips. "I'm in."

Something so dangerously close to amusement flickered in his eyes, and it was blindingly annoying. For a second, the desire to hit him flared within her. That smug fucking grin was trouble.

There was no way out. Not now.

When they sauntered back into the bar silently, a surge of determination steered her gaze around the room to find each of them. They were like ghosts, traipsing through the crowd, smothered by a soft beat and the scent of smoke. Blue detached from her, still soundless and swift, carving his way to the bar, and as he stilled, speaking quietly to the bartender, her gaze lingered on him.

Blue always exhibited that noiseless trait, an almost non-existence, reigning over the city with effortless ease. If he wanted to disappear, he could do it, and if he wanted anyone else to disappear... it wouldn't be difficult.

Slowly, she wandered to the corner of the open space, weaving through the crowd, all elbows and shoulders, never giving a soft apology—tearing her gaze away from him to... him.

A curt nod acknowledged her. Silent.

Her chin rose, but she didn't say anything.

Vegas quirked a brow, and in the hues of purple and blue, his expression seemed to flicker from one emotion to the next too fucking quickly for her to decode a single thought. Worry clenched around her heart, harsh and unforgiving, almost as devastatingly destructive as the glint in his eyes. Fuck, he was good.

Something warm met her open palm, but before she could say a thing, Blue sidled up beside her. Her fingers curled, and she refused to blink, holding that dark fucking gaze.

They didn't exchange a word.

No, Blue handed off the burner phones inconspicuously, lazily, silently, and somehow, that was enough of a warning for the rest of them to understand not to fucking speak.

Her throat tightened. They weren't just listening to him; they were obeying every single fucking unspoken demand. Blue possessed that scary skill, a dangerous finesse, the art of some fucked up, Manson-like manipulation, and for a moment, it was the only thing that existed.

Because Blue had them all wired, down to the little quirks and kinks. Even her. They weren't nobodies anymore; they were simply his.

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**MY BABIES. This is the first time I've really attempted a non-linear story on Wattpad, but I'm digging it way too much. ALSO, Jeff Rosenstock actually did do a residency at Trans-Pecos this December, where he played every Monday night, so I just couldn't help but include it. ☺️