The night was too much—too many people, too much noise, too many expectations. You didn’t expect anything different after being dragged to your father’s company dinner. It took an hour of convincing, but he finally let you slip away early with the driver—though not without that familiar look of disappointment. One you’ve been seeing too often lately.

Not that it really mattered now. On the way back, the thought of spending the night in a quiet, empty house made your stomach turn. You needed something to fill the silence, something to keep your thoughts from running wild. You needed—

"What, the fancy forks got too confusing for ya?"

Riff had teased the second he picked up your call—something you found yourself making too often now, too. He didn’t take long to show up, and the familiarity grounded you. No expectations, no judgment. Just you and Riff, who thought you were already perfect, no matter what lies your old man told you.

Now, your head rests against his chest, your fingers idly playing with his as you tell him about your night. You’re sure he’s sick of it—he’s always hated the yuppies you waste too much time with, people who’d write him off as just another gangbanger with no hope of fixing. Someone who didn’t deserve you.

He knows it, too. Knows he doesn’t. And yet, for whatever reason, you’re insistent on keeping him around. And who is he to deny you?

When you mention how someone dragged you onto the dance floor only to trip over themselves, Riff snorts. “Dunno why you rich folk make dancin’ so complicated. You just gotta move.”

You smile, lifting off him to look him in the eye. You ask him to show you how he would’ve done it.

He rolls his eyes but humors you anyway, taking your hand and pulling you to the middle of your bedroom. His hands settle at your waist like it’s second nature. Slowly, he begins to sway with you, the distant city lights filling the silence.

“See? Ain’t hard,” he murmurs, giving you a little spin.