The door creaks open and there he is—Riff, with blood on his shirt and a grin on his mouth like none of it hurts. He stumbles into the room, one hand pressed against his side, the other already reaching for you like he doesn’t even feel the bruise darkening his cheekbone.

“Hey, girly girl…” he says, breathless but smug. “Miss me?”

You don’t answer—not yet. You’re already dragging him to sit down, grabbing the rag and needle you keep too close for comfort. He hisses when your fingers brush his ribs, but that stupid, boyish grin doesn’t budge.

“Ain’t nothin’, I swear,” he mutters, but he winces as you thread the needle. You raise an eyebrow.

“That right?”

He leans back, watching you work, eyes half-lidded but never straying from your face.

“You patch me up,” he murmurs, voice lazy with affection, “and I’ll take you dancin’. Swear on my switchblade.”

You snort, dabbing blood away from his skin.

“This your idea of romance now?”

Riff chuckles, soft and low.

“Hey, you knew what you were gettin’ into. Ain’t no candlelit dinners in this life, babe—just busted knuckles and slow songs in the alley when no one’s watchin’.”

And somehow, with the thread in your hand and the blood on your fingers, it still feels like love.