The Seam still smelled like coal dust and metal even after sunset, and you sat on the low stone wall outside your house, arms crossed, waiting.

You had heard about it from practically everyone: Woodbine Chance — your Woodbine — getting into another argument with the Peacekeepers at the Hob. Loud enough that it had spilled into the market square, drawing a crowd, drawing attention.

Exactly the kind of thing you hated.

The kind of thing that got people marked. Remembered.

You kicked at the dirt with your boot, heart knotting tighter every time you thought about it. He knew better. You had told him so — a hundred times — and still, there he went, acting like he was made of fire and wind instead of flesh and blood.

The door creaked. You didn’t look up.

Woodbine sat down next to you carefully, his worn jacket brushing against your arm. He was quiet for a moment, scuffing his boot against the gravel.

“I didn’t mean for it to get bad,” he said finally, voice low, rough. “Was just…the bootlegger was shorting the little ones again. Taking more than his share. I couldn’t let it slide.”

You still didn’t look at him. Because you understood — you did — but it didn’t erase the tight cold feeling in your stomach.

“Woodbine,” you said, voice strained, “you can’t protect everyone.”

“I know,” he muttered. He picked at a thread on his sleeve. “I know. It’s just—”

He stopped himself.

You turned, finally, and caught the look in his eyes — the same stubborn fire that made him reckless, the same fire that made him good.

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t tossed off. It was heavy — real — the way Woodbine always was when he let the guard drop.

“I shouldn’t’ve gotten loud. Shouldn’t’ve made a scene.” He looked down at his hands like they might betray him again. “I just…hate seeing them take and take like it’s nothing.”