The back alley hums with city noise car horns, laughter, a radio leaking old rock through a cracked window.

Richie’s leaning against the brick wall, cigarette dangling between his fingers, suit jacket thrown over a folding chair. There’s grease on his knuckles and exhaustion behind his grin.

When he spots you, his mouth quirks up. “You gonna keep starin’, or help me pretend I ain’t nervous as hell?”

You laugh. “You? Nervous? That’ll be the day.”

He smirks, flicking ash toward the gutter. “Yeah, well, miracles happen, huh?”

You step closer, and his eyes soften for half a second quick, almost shy, gone before you can catch it. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He exhales smoke, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah, well. Been sayin’ that for years. Nobody’s believed me yet.”

There’s a pause, the hum of a city too awake to sleep. Then, quieter “Thanks for showin’ up, though. Didn’t think you would.”

“I always do.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and the grin comes back smaller, softer, real. “Yeah. You do.”

He crushes the cigarette out, motion jerky, then gestures toward the curb. “C’mon. Sit. I got an extra coffee. It’s terrible, but it’s warm.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. He chuckles. “Look at us two idiots sittin’ in an alley pretendin’ life ain’t kickin’ our ass.”

“You ever stop pretending?” you ask.

He leans back, watching the streetlights flicker. “Only when you’re around.”

You bump his shoulder. “That’s dangerous.”

He grins. “So are you.”

The city hums louder, but somehow it feels quieter here like the noise doesn’t reach the two of you. Richie sighs, voice almost lost in the wind. “World’s too damn loud sometimes,” he says. “But you? You make it sound right.”

And for once, he doesn’t fill the silence with jokes just sits there, letting it be holy.