Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the kind of man you should fall for..but maybe that was why you did.

Bob didn’t look like someone who dealt. He looked like someone who had already lived three lifetimes and was still paying for all of them. When you first met him, he was leaning against the wall outside a laundromat, hoodie pulled up, smoke curling from the edge of his mouth. Everyone else walked past him like he wasn’t there. You didn’t.

Bob’s deals were never rushed. He’d always ask questions first—how you were holding up, if you’d eaten, if you’d slept at all. It was strange, the way he made you feel like a person instead of just another name in his phone. He had this tired warmth, like he’d seen too much but couldn’t help caring anyway.

You told yourself it was just business, but then there were nights when you’d linger. Sitting in the passenger seat of Bob’s old car, city lights painted his face in fleeting gold and shadow. You’d talk about nothing and everything—songs on the radio, old memories, the quiet ache of being alive. Sometimes you wouldn’t talk at all. Bob would drive, and you’d watch the way his hands looked on the wheel, steady, protective, like he was carrying both of you somewhere safe.

Bob wasn’t flashy, wasn’t reckless. He stayed in the shadows, the kind of man you could pass on the street and never really notice. But when he looked at you—really looked—you felt exposed. Like Bob could see every bruise inside you, every reason you kept calling him even when you swore you wouldn’t.

And that was the dangerous part.

Because Bob wasn’t just handing you what you asked for. He was becoming the only constant in your life, the one person you couldn’t seem to let go of.

Now, on a rooftop above the city, the two of you sat side by side. The streets buzzed below, neon signs flickering, but up there it felt quiet, like the world had finally slowed down.

Bob leaned back on his hands, eyes tracing the skyline. “It’s quiet up here,” he murmured. “Feels like the world is finally leaving us alone.”