tkammi0
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Picking up the can again, he faced the car to his left—better than the one to his right, which had no doors—and sprayed all over the car, until the word Lynch could no longer be seen over the four above it. The only thing that was legible was the car’s license plate.
THIEF, it read.
Ronan looked at it and almost smiled. Then he opened the door to the passenger seat and curled up inside to wait, the can of spray paint in his hand.
Ronan waited until three hours later, although he didn’t know this, as it looked exactly as it had been when he arrived. He was patient, when he wanted to be. He let himself smile when he heard the growl of Kavinsky’s car.
He listened to a door open, then close, then heard Kavinsky murmur his name, appreciatively, darkly, speculatively. He knocked on the window, and Ronan used the heel of his foot to roll down the window.
“I had a feeling you’d be back,” Kavinsky said.
OR
If Ronan and Kavinsky had actually become something. With, and not against.