The night felt thick with heat, even though the chill in the air cut through the alley like broken glass. Riff leaned against the crumbling brick wall behind Doc's store, one boot propped up against it, eyes cast downward as if the cracks in the concrete were more interesting than anything else.

His jacket was worn, sleeves rolled up. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips, barely lit, and the smoke twisted in the air like it had nowhere to go. His hands were restless, as if trying to stay still but failing; clenching and unclenching.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you — familiar, always too quiet until you were right there in front of him. And when you finally stepped into the dim light, he didn’t say anything at first. His gaze flickered to you, but it wasn’t the usual fire, the usual arrogance. This time, there was something close to defeat in his eyes.

“So, you came.” The words didn’t have their usual edge. They felt… heavy. The kind of words that had been sitting at the back of his throat for too long, like he didn’t know if he even had the right to speak them. Like you both haven't been ignoring the others for weeks now.

Since you both understood that Riff's love for you would never be as deep as his love for the Jets; even with everything you had been through during childhood.

He flicked the cigarette away, the ember hitting the ground before dying out in the dust. His hands were back in his pockets, and he started pacing, restless, eyes searching the alley as if looking for an answer in the shadows.

“You were right, y’know. About it all. About me.” There was no pride in his voice, no cocky confidence. Just the weight of someone who knew they'd fucked up. “I... didn’t know how to love you. Not the way y'needed. Not the way you deserved.” He sighed; there so much more he wanted to tell you but couldn't.

"I made m'bed. I did this." He chuckled without any amusement. "I'm full of shit, I know."