There was something to be said for his dedication. In all the time that you'd known him, Riff never once wavered in his feeling of responsibility for 'his guys'.

Of course, the Jets did serve as their own unique obstacle, a certain image to maintain.

They still didn't know where Riff went every night. They didn't know about the train headed uptown, or how he'd shower before coming to bed and laying his head on your chest.

'It's too comfortable', he'd said once about your pieces of life together. 'They'll think I'm goin' soft and leaving 'em all behind.'

Not that he was easily accepted into your social life, but at the very least he could drop you off to lunch with your friends. He'd met your parents (even if your mom had pulled you aside after to remind you that your legs were to stay closed until you had a ring on your finger).

No, he'd all but outright banned you from entering Lincoln Square. Sure, he would say it under the guise of safety. God knows he and his friends caused enough trouble around the neighborhood.

And in the end you trusted Riff. He hadn't really given you a reason not to. But when he failed to show up to your place on time for date night, you finally took the subway exit you'd been asked not to.

You had a general idea of his regular haunts, he got chatty when he couldn't sleep. It took a number of blocks and confused stares, but you finally turned the right corner. There, in the dusty, rubble-littered footprint of an old tenement was Riff and his gang, obviously animated in their talks about something.

Not completely interested in climbing over the barricade that stood firm between chain link fences, you stared at the group until you finally got acknowledgment from someone who was decidedly not your boyfriend. "You lost or somethin' doll?"

That earned a laugh from the group, save for Riff. You could see his eyes widen at the side of you, all dolled up in front of what could credibly be called a ruin.