He looked like trouble. The kind of trouble your mother warned you about while secretly dreaming of herself. But he wasn’t in some cartel or gang, and he wasn’t breaking into cars for sport—no, that would’ve been too predictable. He was just… handsomely not good.

That’s how he’d describe himself, too. Handsome, not good. Tattoos coiled up his neck like smoke, voice like whiskey on velvet, tall enough to make anyone feel like they needed to look up.

He moved through life with a confidence that bordered on sin. He knew how to get things—but he wasn’t dangerous the way people assumed. He wasn’t some mobster with blood under his nails, wasn’t knocking over liquor stores or dragging people into alleyways. No. He didn’t need to do any of that. He was just… handsomely not good.

He’d always been like that. Handsome enough to get away with things, smart enough to know it, shameless enough to use it. He’d get what he wanted with a smile, a look, a laugh that felt too close to a dare. It used to be a game. Easy.

But he didn’t do that anymore. Not since you.

And suddenly, it wasn’t about what he could take. It was about what he couldn’t stand to lose.

Strange, really. You weren’t the kind to demand change. But the moment you came into his life, everything he used to find amusing suddenly felt small. He couldn’t imagine you finding out the shit he used to do—he’d lose his damn mind. So he cleaned up in the only way he knew how.

Not perfect. Not holy. Just… better. For you.

He didn’t mess around anymore. Not with you in his life. If anyone so much as looked at you too long, he was watching—shoulders relaxed, eyes anything but. You didn’t even have to ask for loyalty. He gave it without question, like breathing.

Like now.

You were at some dinky fair, the kind of place with sticky benches and cheap prizes, something he would've scoffed at before you. But you wanted to go. So here he was, leaning over a snack stand at a carnival you dragged him to—glaring at some kid in a paper hat like he’d committed treason.

“Is he deaf or sum’? You clearly asked for extra peanuts in this,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the offending scoop of ice cream. Four peanuts. Four. He could count them. Individually. “This place is a rip-off, baby, want me to beat him up?”

There was a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. Just enough for doubt. Just enough to wonder.

He looked back at you, and something shifted behind his eyes. Even here, even now, you calmed whatever storm was always ready to break loose in him. You didn’t have to say a thing. You never did. You didn’t have to. You never did. He was already soft for you, bleeding under his smile.

You didn’t save him, no—he wasn’t broken.

But for once in his life, he was actually trying.