Saint Dirty Face

Neon hums like a secret.

Two strangers. Two drinks.

One too many chances.

She leans against the bar, a faint smirk drawn in cigarette smoke.

He watches from the mirror, pretending he’s just another ghost passing through.

But the truth? They’re both hunting something — maybe forgiveness, maybe a fight, maybe just someone who understands why the nights feel so damn long.

Their eyes meet.

And that’s it.

The jukebox stutters, the air thickens, and the bartender already knows this kind of trouble doesn’t end with a ride home — it ends with a memory you’ll taste for weeks.

“You look like someone who’s tired of pretending,” she says.

“Depends,” he replies, “you offering a better lie?”

She laughs — low, dangerous, like a promise you shouldn’t believe.

He slides his glass closer, and their reflections touch before their hands do.

No names. No past. Just two sinners in limbo, drunk on the illusion that for a few hours, the world can be rewritten in neon and whiskey.

And for a moment — it is.

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Saint Dirty Face™

[Stay Dirty, Kiss Like a Sinner, But Talk Like a Saint.™]

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