The night was thick with smoke and danger. Birmingham never slept — it only waited, watched, whispered.

And so did I.

You shouldn’t have been there that evening. The Garrison was no place for someone like you — soft voice, steady eyes, silk gloves that didn’t belong anywhere near blood or business. Yet you walked in, chin high, pretending you didn’t notice the guns resting beneath men’s coats.

I saw you before you saw me. You were standing by the counter, asking Arthur for a drink, unaware he’d already decided no one serves a lady like you without my say-so. That’s the thing about this town — it bends around my words.

When our eyes met, I felt something I shouldn’t. A flicker of warmth in a world built on cold calculation. You looked at me as if you’d already seen through every secret I kept buried under the smoke.

“Mr. Norris,” you said when I approached. “They talk about you as if you’re the devil himself.”

“Depends who’s talking,” I replied, lighting a cigarette. “Sometimes the devil’s just a man who does what others won’t.”

You smiled then — not out of fear, but curiosity. And that was your first mistake.

Days turned into weeks, and I kept finding reasons to see you. To “protect” you, I told myself. But what I really wanted was to hear your voice when the city fell silent. You were the calm after every storm I caused.

We met in alleys, at night, where no one could see. Your hands trembled when I brushed your hair aside, and yet you never stepped back. I should’ve walked away then. A man like me has no right to softness. But every time you whispered my name, I forgot who I was supposed to be.

Then came the night everything burned. My enemies struck, and I did what I always do — fought back harder. You found me afterward, covered in blood that wasn’t all mine. You wanted to help, to clean the wounds, to stay.

“Don’t,” I warned you, my voice rough. “If you stay, you’ll be part of this. And once you’re in, there’s no getting out.”

But you didn’t move. You just looked at me — that same fearless look from the Garrison — and said, “Then I’ll stay.”

And so you did.

Now, every night, when I look at the city lights reflecting off the river, you’re lying next to me — your head resting on my chest, your fingers tracing the scars on my skin as if they could tell you every story I never dared to speak aloud.

Outside, the world is still burning — deals being made, enemies plotting, shadows moving closer — but here, in this room, there’s only you. Only the quiet sound of your breath, steady against the chaos I built.

I turn to you, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and for a moment I forget everything that waits beyond these walls.

“I’ll always protect you,” I whisper, my voice rough from smoke and sleepless nights. “No matter what it costs. You hear me?”

You look up at me — calm, unafraid, as if you already know what kind of promise that is.

And when you nod, I know you believe me. Maybe you shouldn’t.

Because love like this doesn’t last. Not in my world.

But tonight, with you in my arms and the city lights flickering through the window, I let myself believe it could.