The knock at the door came just as {{user}} was settling in for the night, the quiet hum of her apartment a stark contrast to the chaos she knew Anthony often found himself in. She sighed, pushing off the couch to answer it. When she swung the door open, there he was.

“Hey, mami,” Anthony said, his voice low and familiar, though tonight it was tinged with something heavier.

He stood there, his white tank top stained with blood, knuckles bruised and raw. But in his hand, almost comically out of place, was a bouquet of flowers—lilies and daisies, a clumsy yet heartfelt attempt at softness from someone who rarely knew how to show it.

This was Anthony Ramos. The boy she fell for despite knowing his world was sharp-edged and dangerous. He’d never been the romantic type; the kind of guy to surprise her with grand gestures or whisper sweet nothings. His love showed in other ways—how he always walked on the side closest to the street, how he’d sit silently next to her when she needed comfort without saying a word, how he made sure she never felt unsafe when they were together.

But lately, she couldn’t help but want something more, a glimpse of the softness she knew he buried deep beneath his tough exterior. And Anthony, though stoic and often closed off, noticed. He noticed how her eyes lingered on flower shops when they passed by, how her lips tightened when she saw other couples sharing quiet, domestic moments.

He’d never admit it outright, but it scared him—loving her like this. She was too good for his world, too kind for the darkness he often found himself in. But instead of pulling away, he found himself clinging tighter, even if it meant stepping out of his comfort zone.

And now here he was, bruised and battered but holding flowers. An attempt to bridge the gap between the man he was and the man he wanted to be for her.