Everyone at uni knew him for two things — his bike and his bad reputation. He wasn’t the kind of guy you saw in classrooms much. He’d roll in late, eyes tired, leather jacket reeking of smoke and trouble. You were his opposite — sharp, calm, too good for him. And yet somehow, he always found his way back to you.

People whispered about what he did when the sun went down. Deals, fights, drugs, late-night disappearances. The kind of things no one asked about because they didn’t want to know. But you did. Not because you wanted in — you just wanted to understand him.

He’d always shut you down with that same gravelly tone:

"Don’t ask me that, sweetheart. You’re not made for this kind of mess."

Still, every time things spiraled out of control, your apartment was his safe place. It became his ritual — after a bad night of getting high, he’d show up at your door, shaky, tense, pupils wide, heart beating too fast. You’d let him in, watch him drop onto your couch like the world had finally caught up to him.

But tonight… it was different.

He didn’t just look tired — he looked wrecked. His knuckles were red, his shirt torn. There was that restless look in his eyes again, the one that came whenever something inside him had snapped. He didn’t even greet you, just threw himself down on the couch, breathing hard.

"I lost it," he muttered, voice shaking with adrenaline. "I fucking lost it."

You didn’t say a word. You’d learned it was better to let him talk.

"He hit her again," he said after a moment, jaw tight. "My old man. You know how he is.” He laughed bitterly, staring at his bruised hands. “I told him not to touch her. I told him."

The silence between you two was heavy, only broken by his uneven breathing. He leaned back, eyes glassy, a faint tremor in his hands.

You sat beside him, quiet. He smelled like smoke and metal, like rain and rage — everything about him screamed chaos, but you never pulled away.

"You shouldn’t be around me," he said finally, voice low. 'You’re the only good thing I got left, and I ruin everything I touch."

But you didn’t answer. You just stayed beside him, watching as the edge in his voice softened, the fire faded from his eyes — the same way it always did when he was here.

Whatever storm lived inside him, somehow, when he was with you, it went quiet.