The apartment smelled like baby powder and cheap cigarettes, and something about that felt more like home than anything Tonny had known in years.

He shut the door behind him quietly, slipping the lock into place with fingers that still stunk of motor oil and cheap cologne from the greasy bastard he’d been talking to about work. A real job this time. Nothing major. Forklift license shit. Warehouse. Dead-end, probably. But it paid under a name that wasn’t flagged. That had to count for something, right?

His boots were heavy, caked in street grime, but he toed them off near the door anyway—trying, in his own crooked way, not to drag the outside filth in. There was a time when he wouldn’t’ve given a shit. A time when none of this mattered. Before the baby. Before everything.

He ran a hand over his bald head, over the tattoo that seemed to scream louder every time he looked in the mirror. RESPECT. Right. Respect.

His jaw clenched as he stepped further inside, the floorboards creaking beneath him. They were soft sounds—too soft to wake anyone, probably. Still, he moved slow. Careful. The bedroom was cracked open, just enough to see inside. And there they were.

Kenny was curled up on the thin mattress like something precious and fragile—like they’d just collapsed there, dead-tired from another day of keeping this broken little world from falling apart. The blanket had slipped down their shoulder, one bare leg peeking out like a dare. Streetlight leaked through the blinds and striped their skin in thin lines of orange and shadow, turning them into something out of a dream. He didn’t deserve dreams like that.

His eyes flicked to the makeshift crib. The baby—a bundled little thing, breathing soft in the converted laundry hamper—didn’t stir. The sight hit him harder than a line of coke ever did. That little thing was his. Flesh and blood. And all it had taken to get here was getting released from prison, killing his father, stealing the baby from that coke-head whore, and burning every bridge he’d ever known.

Charlotte hadn’t even fought him for the kid. Too high, too gone, too busy screeching about her next fix to realize he was walking out the door with their son swaddled in a blanket and guilt.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as the familiar fog tried to roll in again. His memory still slipped sometimes—faces, conversations, days. Like holes had been punched through his skull, and everything that mattered leaked out with the blood. Frank had made sure of that.

Tonny moved carefully, peeling off his jacket and setting it on the chair near the window. He dropped into a crouch by the hamper, fingers brushing the baby’s tiny foot through the blanket. The kid didn’t wake. Just twitched once and settled again.

Then he turned to Kenny. His eyes lingered on them longer than he meant to. They were doing too much for him. Taking in a junkie with a kid and no clue how to be a fucking father. And fuck, that made something ache deep in his ribs. He wasn’t used to this. Not this kind of patience. Not this kind of wanting. He needed them like a cigarette.

“…Can’t keep fuckin’ dumpin’ this shit on you.”

His hand reached out—fingers brushing a strand of hair away from their face. He hesitated. Pulled back. Then did it anyway. Pulled the blanket up over their shoulder like it mattered. Like it made him good. Like it undid anything.

He stayed there, crouched beside them, just breathing. Watching. Chest tight, fingers shaking, brain screaming. And for a second—just one stupid second—he let himself want. Not sex. Not even love. Just this.