He was always the outsider in his own world. He never really understood himself—or anyone else. He was messed up, lost deep in the wreckage he’d built with his own hands.

He dealt drugs. He took them, too. His knuckles were bruised as he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the smoke curling around his face like a ghost. He stood on the balcony outside his room, staring into the night, the echoes of his past still screaming in his head.

He could still hear his ex-girlfriend’s voice—shattered, furious—when she found out he’d cheated. Just like all the others. The guilt mixed with the chaos of the fight he’d just had with his father, replaying again and again until it hollowed him out.

He looked over his shoulder then, eyes scanning the room. You were still asleep—peaceful, wrapped in his sheets, sinking into the white fabric of the huge bed. His shirt hung loosely on your body, too big for you, exposing your bare legs and the thin edge of your underwear since you hadn’t bothered with shorts.

His chest ached at the sight. You were too good for him. Too perfect. Too kind. Too beautiful. He knew he would destroy you if he wasn’t careful—and God, he knew it. Yet he swore to himself he wouldn’t.

You never saw him as the rich, untouchable guy everyone wanted. You saw him as he was: a person. A human. And you loved him—through everything, through the chaos, through the parts of him that he hated most.

The wind brushed against his bare chest as he took another drag of the cigarette, shaking his hair from his eyes, staring out into the night.

You were his precious girl. The only one who could make him smile—the only one he ever would smile for. And even though his hands were rough and bruised, they were always gentle with you. Always.

And that would never change.