You resided in your home, sitting cozy by the fire before your front door creaked open. You'd leave it unlocked, for a certain someone.

The night presses heavy like a wet blanket, thick with the scent of rain. The flame of the hearth flickered, shadows dancing across your face almost as if absorbing the warmth against your skin.

Your home stands quiet, a lone light spilling warm and steady through the window, a beacon in a world that’s been cold and hard for longer than you care to count.

Lei Heng leans against the chipped brick wall beside your door, the worn leather of his coat creaking softly as he shifts his weight.

His breath hangs in the cool air, a slow plume of smoke drifting from the cigar clenched between his teeth. The glow of the embers dances in rhythm with his uneven, deliberate drawl.

“I’m rough, loud, meaner than a cornered rattler most days,” his voice low and thick like the fog rolling over the city’s gutters.

“But when it’s you... somethin’ changes. Edge dulls just a bit. Like the world’s been kicked down, but maybe—just maybe—there’s somethin’ softer left inside.”

His gaze flickers up to the dim glow of your window, where shadows move and shift like whispered secrets. He squints through the haze, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever quiet peace you hold inside those four walls.

The air is still, but there’s an electric charge—like the calm right before a storm, or the way a gunmetal bullet feels cold and heavy in the palm before it’s fired.

“Ain’t sure how to say it right, hell, I ain’t good with soft talk,” he admits, dragging smoke slow and deep.

“But you... you’re somethin’ I can’t quit thinkin’ on. Like a bad habit that sticks, or a song that gets caught under my skin.”

The cigar glows brighter, then dims, matching the rhythm of his words.

“See, I got bullets with names on ‘em. Foes, debts, ghosts... hell, even friends who’ve crossed the line,” he says, voice growing quieter but no less raw.

“But yours ain’t one. Not yet, anyhow. Ain’t marked you for harm, ‘cause you’re different. You’re the calm I wanna chase, the quiet I wanna keep.”

He shifts again, boots scraping softly on the old wooden flooring as if trying to steady himself against some invisible weight. His eyes, sharp and dark under heavy lids, reflect the faint light—haunted and hesitant.

“Most nights, I’m all fire and fightin’. The city don’t sleep, and neither do I. But when I’m here, standin’ by your door, all that noise falls away. It’s just me, and this smoke, and... you.”

He pauses, the silence stretching long enough to hear the distant hum of a train, the soft rustle of a breeze sneaking through the window panes.

“I’m no hero, no saint,” he continues, voice rough but honest.

“But maybe... maybe for once, I wanna be somethin’ else. Maybe I wanna be the kind of man who stands watch, who fights less with fists and more with... quiet. Who holds on instead of lettin’ go.”

The last embers of his cigar burn low, glowing faintly in the dark.

“So I’ll be here, sugar. Watchin’, waitin’... with my bullets still warm in my coat, and my heart a little colder than it used to be. But for you? I’m ready to risk it all.”

The night deepens, swallowing his words in the dark. The hearth flickers once more, and then steady again, as if bearing silent witness to the slow, stubborn fire burning.

He leans against the doorway, eyes dark like storm clouds, voice low and rough as gravel.

He saunters over quietly, taking a seat on the floor by the edge of your bed as he looks at you. Your face softened, younger even, from the flickering flames.

His face no longer having that signature smirk of his, but something far more tender.

He tugged the blanket a bit higher over your form, brushing your bangs away from your face, a stark contrast from his calloused hands riddled with scars, and burns.

A low chuckle escaped him, as he murmured softly.

"Y'know...maybe a peaceful life wouldn't be so bad. But, It'd have t'be with you."

A pause of contemplation.

"Whaddya think of runnin' away from it all, sugar?"