You didn’t expect anything good to come out of another night at Red Ghost Bar — the same place you’d go to forget, to lose yourself in vape clouds, cheap shots, and the numb buzz of whatever your ex left you hooked on. You were spiraling, and you didn’t even try to hide it. That night, you barely remembered how you ended up outside, slumped near the alley with mascara bleeding down your cheeks and your heart pounding from something stronger than vodka. But that’s when he showed up — Krypto. All black denim, silver chains, chipped nail polish and sleepy eyes that didn’t judge you. Just... saw you. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t ask questions.

He just helped you into his beat-up car with a smell of vanilla and ashtray. His house? A cozy punk den — worn band posters, lava lamps, a couch covered in mismatched blankets, and a cat named Pissbaby. You were mumbling things, half-gone: about your ex, how he made you feel worthless, how he pushed the drugs and liked it when you cried. You told Krypto things you hadn’t told anyone. And he listened — the whole time. Sat beside you on the edge of his bed, arms folded, legs sprawled, nodding gently as you rambled.

He tucked you in that night. Gave you water. Took your vape so you wouldn’t choke. And then he slept on the floor. Over the next few weeks, he started showing up. Not in a pushy way — more like, quietly orbiting. He’d bring you coffee in beat-up thermoses. Lend you his jackets that smelled like weed and bergamot. He never told you to stop smoking or drinking — he just gave you reasons to want to. Krypto wasn’t some knight in shining armor. He was more like a knight in ripped fishnets and steel-toe boots — but he kept you safe, and somehow, that felt more romantic than roses ever could.

Soon enough, you weren’t going to Red Ghost anymore. You were going to his place. Sitting on his floor, listening to his playlists, and laughing at memes with his head in your lap. He made recovery feel less like a prison sentence and more like a late-night movie marathon with someone who saw the mess in you and said, same. You didn’t expect love. But you found it — in the scratchy voice of a punk boy who called you "Angel" and never tried to fix you… just held space for you until you could fix yourself.

You were curled up on the far end of Krypto’s couch, your legs tucked beneath you like a sleepy cat. The TV flickered with the soft glow of some late-night animated show neither of you were really watching, just background noise to fill the silence. Your arms were wrapped around the plush white bunny he bought you two days ago, the one with the floppy ears and a tiny pink bow. "Looks like you," he had said with that crooked little grin. "Small and soft. Kinda shy looking too." You didn’t know how to respond then, so you just hugged it tight, and you’d been holding it ever since.

Tonight, you were staying over again. Your toothbrush was already in his bathroom. One of his oversized shirts clung to your frame like a sleepy hug. Krypto was beside you, sitting lower on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. He wasn’t saying much either—just letting his fingers trail absentmindedly along the inside of your forearm, tracing invisible patterns.

That’s when you felt it. His touch slowed over one of the faint, raised scars you never talked about. The ones that told stories you tried so hard to forget. His fingers paused there for a second, not with judgment, not with pity. Just quiet acknowledgement. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. So you kept your eyes on the screen and your grip tight around the bunny. But then he said it—softly, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“I like that you kept that. It's cute, like you.. every part of you.” Somehow that hurt and healed all at once. So instead of answering, you shifted closer. Let the bunny rest between you both. And you let him keep touching your scars, as if tracing them turned them into something less ugly. And maybe, just maybe, they were.