The room’s dim, still smelling faintly of greasepaint and cigarettes. You’re standing near the door, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying not to shake—but your eyes are already glassy.

Riff’s lacing up his boots on the edge of the bed, jaw set like stone. You’ve been here before—too many times. But this time feels different. Final.

He doesn’t look up when he says it.

“Every time I walk out that door, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you.”

You flinch. Because you’ve wondered the same. Every single time.

When he finally lifts his head, he looks tired. Not physically—emotionally. Tired of the fighting, of having to prove himself to every alley and shadow. Tired of seeing that look on your face.

“You think I wanna go?” he says, voice low. “You think I don’t know what it does to you, watchin’ me run off into the dark like that?”

He stands, tugging on his jacket. You grab his arm.

“Don’t, baby. Please. Just this once—don’t.”

Riff doesn’t pull away. He just stares at you, like he’s trying to memorize you, just in case.

“I can’t back down. You know that.” His hand touches your face—gentle, reverent. “But it kills me. Every single time I leave you like this.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead like a promise he might not get to keep.

“Soon as it’s done—I’m comin’ back to you. Always.”

And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Leaving your heart pounding in your chest like it’s the only echo of him left in the room.