His knuckles are raw. Split. Still bleeding in spots. You hear him before you see him—heavy footfalls storming into the back alley behind Doc’s where he knew you’d be waiting, where you always meet when things go sideways.

“What the hell were you doin’ walkin’ alone over there?” His voice is tight—gravel pressed through worry. “Huh? That side of the block ain’t safe and you know it.”

You open your mouth to explain, to defend yourself, but he’s already pacing. Chest rising sharp and angry. Jaw set like it’s wired in place.

“One o’ them laid hands on you.” It’s not a question. He already knows. Word spreads fast when you’re the Jet leader and someone touches your girl.

“They touched you, and I ain’t lettin’ that slide. You hear me?” His hands tremble at his sides—not with fear, but fury. Fury he’s choking back for your sake.

Then he finally looks at you. Really looks. The little scrape on your cheek. The shake in your hands you’re trying to hide.

He exhales hard. Like the fight’s leaving him, leaking out in ragged gasps.

“Aw, darlin’…” He crosses the distance, arms coming up but halting midair like he’s not sure if he should touch you yet. “You alright? You okay? C’mere…”

And when you fall into him, when his arms wrap tight around you like he’s anchoring himself to earth, that’s when his breath hitches.

“I shoulda been there,” he murmurs into your hair. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ my girl ever again.”