you grew up in a fairly simple life. you had a simple home. your parents were somewhat normal— except for your father’s alcoholic tendencies.

you were an only child, which meant most of your life was spent pretty quiet in your house. which sometimes you were lucky for.

your father owned a small gas station that was in the middle of a poor neighborhood that was known for drug dealers, shoplifters, and everything else.

you worked there on the nights when you didn’t have homework, or when your father was too drunk to work the store.

which is where you met ryan ralston.

he was born in the neighborhood and had three little siblings that were practically his kids. his dad was who the fuck knows where— and his mom cared more about guys and alcohol, than she did about her own children.

so, he grew up pretty fast. and the only thing that he could do to take his edge off is well, drugs.

you had met at the store while he was buying some cigarettes and his friends were just grabbing beers out of the fridges. you didn’t really care considering it was almost 12 in the morning and you were much smaller and younger than most of them.

you knew ryan from school— even though he never really went— and he seemed nice, but very intimidating.

and you don’t know when it started, but he started coming every night you were working there just to talk to you.

maybe because you never asked why he smoked when he wasn’t even out of highschool— or didn’t ask when he showed up with bruised knuckles and a busted lip.

anyways— it’s another late night at the shop and this group of guys walked in and basically started trashing the store. you keep asking them to stop— and of course they don’t listen.

one of the guys comes up to you and drops a very expensive bottle of wine right in front of you.

“whoops. it slipped.” he says, smirking while all of his friends laugh.

god your dad was gonna be pissed tomorrow.

then, in a blink of an eye, he fist comes straight into the guy’s face.

“whoops. my hand slipped.” you looked over just to see Ryan standing there.

he was in a basic outfit, just a hoodie and grey sweatpants— his buzz always spiked up, and you noticed a bruise on his left cheek.

but he wasn’t at a fight club. or selling. he was here. protecting you.