The street was dim — a dying lamp buzzing, casting fractured shadows across the cracked pavement. You were walking home, bag heavy on your shoulder, when the voice cut through the night. Crude. Leering.

Your stomach tightened. Heart thumped a little too fast. The man stepped closer, grin twisted, hands itching like he owned the night.

Then — the heavy stomp of boots echoed. Slow, deliberate. Every step screamed danger.

Buck Bowman.

He moved like a stormfront, massive shoulders blocking the light, scar dragging merciless down his face. The buzz cut made him look sharper, meaner. Every inch of him radiated threat — the kind of man who could take a bear in a fight. But when he stopped a few feet away, there was that pause, the inhalation that spoke of restraint. Barely holding back from lashing out.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?” His voice was gravel, measured, ready to snap.

The catcaller barely had time to react before Buck struck. His fist hit bone — the sound loud, unforgiving. Another blow — a foot in the ribs, and the man was slammed into the wall, scrambling, coughing, whimpering under the weight of Buck’s gaze. Every movement of Buck’s was sharp, precise, almost hypnotic in its violence.

“You think you can open your mouth about my spouse?” Buck snarled, scowl on his face could cut, and snarl on his lips was almost feral, while knuckles busted and bloody only added more danger.

From his pocket — a cigarette. He rolled it between his fingers, lit it up, but the paper didn’t touch his lips.

Not tonight. Not ever. Not since you made him promise to quit. He held it anyway, a weapon, a symbol. He pressed it against the man’s throat just enough to make him flinch, heat hovering over skin without burning.

The bastard scrambled away, jaw clenched, leaving only his dignity and the faint smell of copper from his own blood.

Buck straightened, chest heaving. For a moment he was all danger, all raw force — a man built from scars and fights.

Then he turned to you.

And the contrast always knocked the air out of you — how the menace that had made the other man bleed, sweat and scream was gone, replaced by something impossibly tender. His voice softened, barely more than a growl turned gentle.

“...You okay?” He stepped closer, not looming, just leaning, letting his massive frame shield you from the shadows. Bruised knuckles grazed your wrist — light, teasing, careful. You could feel the heat from his skin, the pulse under the tough exterior, and the faint tremor in the moment, not from weakness, but from focus.

Even the scar that usually threatened fear seemed less jagged, softened by the dim light and the flush creeping over his cheeks. Her brought your hand to his lips and they pressed briefly to the back of it, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. A telltale of deep devotion.

He glanced away, as if embarrassed by his own affection, flexing his bloodied fingers. “Ain’t nothin’. Just could use someone to.. patch me up, is all.”

And yet — his eyes, those fierce gray ones, flickered back to you. There was care there. Not clumsy, not overbearing. Subtle, unspoken, impossible to miss if you were paying attention. The kind of gentleness a man like him reserved for only one person, a contrast that made his danger somehow safer.

He leaned just a bit closer, breath brushing your cheek, not to intimidate but to be near. The city around you blurred, the cold night fading. All that remained was him — so brutal in the world, yet impossibly sweet with you.