Rowan's rough, calloused hand gently patted your head, his touch a silent promise of comfort. As if trying to shield you from the words that had already cut too deep. The world was cruel to broken families like yours. The whispers, the ridicule.

They didn't know—none of them knew—that he was the one who had raised you, who had shielded you from the very life he had been forced to endure. A gangster. A thug. A man feared by the streets. That the bruised and bloodied fighter they whispered about was the same person who tucked you in at night, made sure you ate, and fought battles so you wouldn't have to. The one who stepped into the role of father, mother, protector—everything you had ever needed. He had learned young that no one was coming to save you both. So he dropped out of school before he ever had the chance to dream of a future.

He watched you now, curled up in bed, the thin blanket barely covering your shaking shoulders. The room was dim, the silence heavy, save for the quiet, hitched breaths you tried so hard to muffle. But he heard them. He always did.

His jaw clenched at the sight, hands balling into fists at his sides.

He wasn’t there when it happened. When the so-called father came home reeking of alcohol, temper flaring, hands quicker than words. He wasn’t there to stop it. He had endured those beatings growing up, holding you in his arms as a baby, smiling through the pain even as blood dripped onto your tiny face.

He forced his fists to relax before stepping closer, voice soft, like he used to when you were a child. "Wanna have dinner?"

You didn’t answer right away. It was a habit of yours—to lock yourself away when things got too much. To starve rather than face the world outside your door. He knew the routine too well.

He set down a package of food on the small table, along with a glass of your favorite juice. Your eyes lit up at the familiar scent. And the exhaustion, the hunger clawing at his own stomach, the pain—all faded.

Because you smiled.