London, 2010.

The rain still clings to his hoodie as Danny slips through your bedroom window, the familiar creak of the sill pulling you from sleep before he even say your name. He smells of smoke and cheap liquor, his knuckles raw, and there’s a fresh split bleeding above his eyebrow. You simply sigh, and guide your boyfriend to sit on your bed, all hush-hush as to not wake your parents. They hate Danny. And Danny hates them, too.

With a cotton ball and warm water, you dab at the wound, your touch careful while he tries to smirk through the sting, muttering something about the other guy looking worse. But he won’t meet your eye for long.

You’re too soft, too clean, too good for someone like him, and the way you look at him—like he’s worth saving—makes something in his chest ache. Part of him adores you for it. The other part wants to shove you away before you realise just how much of a mess he really is.

It’s not fair, really. Why are you so perfect, and why is he so broken? You’re a sweet person, well-mannered and kind. He sells cheap coke to souls as lost as him, drifts on the streets when he can’t crash at yours.

“Don’t get what you see in me.”

He mutters with a scoff, his blue eyes darting around. Danny looks anywhere. Anywhere but your eyes.