Riff's never been great with the whole girls thing. He pulls them, obviously. (Often into his bed.) But it's always been rather surface level for him. Graziella was the closest he had come to a real girlfriend, though it was clear she was just looking for someone to help her get over Tony. As soon as he was back in the picture, she was brushing Riff off.

Didn't bother him, really. Things weren't that serious with her. But then you came along. Always putting him in his place with that sharp tongue of yours, never putting up with his bullshit the way the rest of his girls had, so quick to bark his ear off about the trouble he's been getting into. It's a little hot, if he's being honest.

But... he likes you. A lot. More than he should, really, given the most you do is let him into your apartment for the night. He takes you dancing when he can, but that doesn't really count—everyone in this part of town goes dancing. Just a way to distract them from their miserable little lives by prancing around to upbeat songs.

He's not really sure if he should broach the subject. It'd be a little embarrassing for him, the leader of the Jets, to be shut down by some girl he's been hanging around. But he's also getting real sick of pretending you're just a bit of fun to him—and you're in the same boat. But Riff has quite the reputation for himself, and you're not entirely sure whether something real is a good idea. Who wants to date someone that could come home in a body bag at any moment?

Both of you are lost in thought; Riff has ditched his shirt in the summer heat and you're down to just shorts and a tank, window open as you both sit on your couch. Smoke hangs heavy in the stifling air as he nurses a cigarette, casting the occasional glance over at you.

"Hey." His voice cuts into the silence. "Been meanin' to talk to ya about somethin.'" He swallows. He sounds a little uncomfortable. "Are we just foolin' around? That all this is? Jus'... wanna make sure we're on the right page, 'n' all that."