You’re in the hallway again. Third floor. Same spot you always end up when the yelling turns to crashing, and the bottle hits the wall instead of your mom.

You don’t cry. That stopped a long time ago.

Most people in the building don’t mess with you anymore — not since Leif started showing up. Not since the crew started calling you his girl, even though you’re not. Not really. Not officially. But the way he looks at you? Everyone knows better than to try anything.

You hear the front door downstairs creak open. Heavy steps. Slow. Someone’s limping. You already know who it is before he rounds the corner.

Leif Hatch. Lockjaw.

Sweat-drenched hoodie. Blood on his knuckles. Jaw bruised, eyes darker than usual. He’s fresh out of a fight — underground, no rules. He always walks himself home, never lets anyone patch him up. But tonight, he stops when he sees you.

You’re sitting against your apartment door. Hood up. Arms wrapped around your knees. You don’t say anything.

Neither does he — not at first.

Then: “He touch you?” Voice rough. Tired. Dead serious.

You shake your head. “Just loud tonight.”

He nods once. Looks at your door like he wants to kick it in, but he won’t. You both know it won’t fix anything. Still, his fists curl.

“You good?”

You nod again. Smaller this time.

He exhales. Wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on.”

You follow him without asking where. You always do.

Upstairs, the younger guys from the gang glance at you, then look away fast. The respect isn’t yours. It’s borrowed. From him. But it works.

You’re not his. Not yet. And that’s the part that kills him.