They call him a mobster, but the first time you see him he’s standing awkwardly outside the corner bodega at midnight, hat pulled low, coat too big for the narrow sidewalk. He’s pretending to read the prices on the window, pretending he’s not waiting for you.

You come out balancing a sleepy baby on one hip and a paper bag of discounted groceries on the other. It’s late—your third shift just ended, rent’s due, and your back aches in a way you don’t have time to complain about.

He straightens the moment he spots you.

“Hey,” Shiro says, voice soft, like he’s afraid to wake the city. “You didn’t have to carry all that.”

You recognize him instantly. Everyone does. The whispers, the rumors, the kind of man he’s supposed to be. You should walk away. You mean to.

Instead, he gently takes the bag, careful not to jostle the baby, and glances down with an expression that doesn’t belong on a man like him—something tender, almost reverent.

“She asleep?” he asks.

Your baby squirms, frowns, then settles again, tiny fingers clutching your sweater. Shiro exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I can walk you home,” he adds quickly. “Just to the door. No strings. I swear.”

The streetlight flickers above you both, and for a moment the world feels split in two—his dangerous, shadowed one, and your exhausting, fragile one.

Somehow, they keep colliding.

And somehow… he keeps choosing you.