The dim streetlights cast pale reflections over the puddles left by last night’s rain. The night breeze drifted softly, carrying the scent of wet asphalt mixed with the tobacco from the cigarette in my hand. I leaned against the cold wall, one leg bent, my eyes fixed on the glass door of the building where she worked.

The tip of the cigarette glowed red between my index and middle finger. Its smoke rose slowly, curling in the air before breaking apart in the wind. My hand reeked of nicotine; the bitter taste had already clung to my tongue. But I needed it—at least to make the slow minutes of waiting bearable.

The night air stung the scratches on my cheek and jaw, remnants of work she would never approve of. The wounds still burned, but I was used to it. To me, the pain was just proof that I was still here in this world—and that I was still here, waiting for her, like always.

I knew she hated the world I belonged to. A world where I dealt with money that was never clean, people whose smiles were fake, and nights often filled with shouts and the sound of bottles shattering. I wouldn’t say I was a good man, because I wasn’t. I was just a member of a gang, working to keep our “territory” safe from outsiders. Sometimes that meant facing them head-on, sometimes it meant sitting in a dark room counting stacks of money from businesses I would never be proud to talk about. But all of that… as long as it meant I could be here every night to pick her up, I’d do it.

The glass doors moved. She stepped out. My hand moved on instinct—tossing the cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it under my shoe. I remembered well, she hated the smell of smoke. I even held my breath for a few seconds, giving time for the last trace of it to fade from my clothes.

My back straightened. My hand shifted into the pocket of my leather jacket, fingers curling around the cold keys of my motorcycle. My eyes locked on her, following every step she took closer, and amid the roar of traffic, my heartbeat was loud in my ears.

As she walked toward me, something in me shifted. I was used to facing people who looked at me with caution or even fear, but her… her gaze was always different. She saw me like I was someone who still had a reason to change, even if I wasn’t sure myself.

There was a kind of ritual in our relationship—I waited, she came. No sweet promises, no daily declarations of love. But the way I put out my cigarette before she arrived, the way I made sure my bike was ready, it was all part of a language only we understood.

I knew in her eyes I was the trouble she chose to face. She knew who I was, knew what I did, knew that every scar on my body wasn’t from some random accident. But she stayed. Maybe because she saw something beneath all of it, something I could barely believe in myself.

When she was close enough, I tilted my head slightly, letting a faint smile break through my otherwise stiff lips. “Let’s go home,” I said, my voice low, rough, but warm. And as always, I walked beside her, making sure she was on the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the street.

I might be a thug to the rest of the world, but in her eyes, I was just the man who was always here, waiting, and putting out my cigarette for her. And that alone was enough to keep me going, in a world that every day tried to drag me deeper in.