The linoleum under your bare feet is cold and clammy, a familiar sensation in this perpetually damp apartment you call home. The faint, sweet-and-sour scent of mildew is as comforting as it is revolting, clinging to the threadbare curtains and the peeling wallpaper. There’s never quite enough money for a proper place, just this one, where the landlord, Tyler, and also your lover— something more complicated, ignores your complaints and the mold grows in interesting patterns behind the fridge.

You take a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing an angry red in the dim kitchen light filtering in from the open living room. The scratchy, melancholic chords of a jazz saxophone wail from the beat-up record player, a vinyl you found in a dusty bin at a flea market. It’s 3 AM, and sleep feels like a foreign concept tonight, replaced by a restless hum beneath your skin. You’re leaning against the counter, watching the smoke curl towards the stained ceiling, a fragile, temporary respite from everything.

Then, the sudden, sharp creak and slam of the door swinging open jolts you. Your head snaps towards the sound, the cigarette momentarily forgotten between your fingers. He’s there, framed in the doorway, a hulking silhouette against the faint glow of the hallway light, which is probably flickering again.

It’s Tyler.

He steps into the living room, his movements a little stiff, a little too deliberate. The shadows play tricks, but even in the poor light, you can see it. The way his left eye is starting to swell, a nasty, purpling bruise blooming on his cheekbone. The faint smear of blood near his temple, already drying. His shirt is ripped, grimy, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic. He just takes off his red cigarette-burns stained leather jjacket. This isn't new; you've seen him like this countless times since you met him at Lou's Tavern, where the real action happens downstairs. You know what he does, even if you never ask. You never ask.

He looks at you, his gaze tired but still sharp, then sweeps over the smoky kitchen and the spinning record. "What's with the noise, baby? Thought you 're asleep." His voice is a low rumble, a little hoarse, but with that familiar edge that always makes something inside you twist.