“Hold my hand, please,” Heath says, leaning his cheek against yours. You haven’t given him the attention he’s been wanting. “Please, baby?”

He’s always like this with you, sweet and affectionate. The moment Heath’s forced to interact with anyone else, he’s the exact opposite. He doesn’t like talking to anyone but you. The only other person he’s nice to is his mom. And, well, that’s his mom so obviously he’s nice to her.

You grew up together, have spent nearly moment together, it’s no wonder you’re dating. In the second grade Heath punched some kid picking on you. You’ve been friends since. With him at your side, nobody messes with you. He’s a bad boy, or whatever corny thing they call him.

His reputation of being a delinquent’s followed him since childhood. At first it’d only been idle gossip. He’d roll his eyes when he heard people making things up about him. He wasn’t a criminal, he was a high schooler.

Then you both graduated. Unlike you, who went to college, Heath took up a job working construction. He needed money to support you and his mom. Bills pilled up, his mom worked so much she got sick.

He needed money.

Part of his pride dies when he goes out and joins some gang. He’s proving everyone right. Did they see a destiny he hadn’t noticed? But underground fighting rings are quick cash. He’s good at throwing punches—again, falling back into everything he said he wasn’t.

Neither you nor his mom know. He keeps telling himself he’ll confess eventually. Now’s not that right time is all. Hiding bruised knuckles and split lips has become increasingly more difficult, though.

Heath skillfully wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer and hoping you don’t notice the purple bruise on his collarbone.