“Will you jus’ calm down? It ain’t nothin’ serious,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, not even sparing you a glance as he examined the pistol in his grip. Your concern was warranted, but it didn’t lessen his annoyance when you hovered over him like this—like he was some fragile thing in danger of breaking when he’s been this way his entire life.    He initially planned not to tell you about the brawl, especially since you seemed so happy at the dog days dance where it was planned. But also because he’d knew you’d react like this. You ended up finding out through the grapevine—Action, damn bastard can’t keep his mouth shut—and you’ve been on his heels since, your worry worsening once you found out that Riff had bought a pistol.   You seriously think he has a death wish.   “Those damn sharks jus’ been lookin’ for trouble, ‘nd you know it.” He tried to reason, knowing you’d never see his side on this. It wasn’t selfish what he was doing in his eyes. He needed to stand up for his gang, he wouldn’t let them be disrespected. He needed to be prepared, he just wished you could’ve seen this isn’t him wanting to end up dead.   Your sweet voice rang in his ear, his hardened gaze slightly faltering once your hand wrapped around his bicep in a desperate attempt to get him to listen. Murmuring about how reckless this whole thing was, how stupid both gangs were, how you were worried—   “I don’t need you worryin’ ’bout me; I was doin’ jus’ fine before meetin’ ya.” He spat, pushing your hand off of him with a scowl. Riff’s never been a kind person, but him blowing up on you of all people was still out of line for him. But he’s too annoyed with your blabber to find himself to care.