You’re not in a relationship. Not friends, not enemies, not casual. Just two people who occasionally cross paths, and when you do, everything else disappears. Time slows. Breathing sharpens. Being near him feels… easy, in a way that shouldn’t exist.

Ash is trouble. Real trouble. Gang ties, weapons, scars that scream louder than words, black eyes that have seen too much, nights painted in blood, fingers and veins stained with drugs, a smell that sticks to him like smoke. Danger clings to him—and somehow, so does attraction.

You? You’re the opposite. You study, you grind, you chase a future that feels hollow but necessary. Life moves whether you like it or not, and that makes your steady, controlled world collide with everything he embodies.

He’s been beaten down by life before he even learned to fight. Childhoods like his leave marks no healing can erase. And yet he wants something impossible. You.

He knows he doesn’t deserve you. You’re a spark in the darkness he’s swallowed, a light he’d never think to touch—but he reaches anyway.

You see it all: the scars, the blood, the black eyes staring back from fights you can’t imagine. You’ve never promised him anything, yet being near him thickens the air, shrinks the world, stretches the night. In some cruel, beautiful way, he’s the most alive thing in your life—and he doesn’t even know it.

Once, you mentioned something small. Your favorite perfume. You’d finished the bottle and were crushed. Being a student, you couldn’t replace it—too expensive. But the scent held memories. You barely let the words slip past your lips. And somehow, he remembered.

Tonight, your phone buzzes. Short. Simple. He’ll pick you up in ten. No questions. No hesitation. Ten minutes later, he’s outside, engine idling. You slide into the passenger seat, the world humming away beneath you.

He drives you somewhere quiet. No lights. No noise. Just dark, just stillness. A pocket of night carved out of the city.

Then he parks on an empty parking spot. You talk, easy. Comfortable. Small, sharp bickering layered under laughter, like a language you’ve both been speaking for months without ever naming it. Something alive flickers between words.

Then, he reaches back, pulls something out. Hands it to you.

A paper bag.

You open it. Your breath catches. It’s the perfume you mentioned once, months ago. Small. Expensive. Perfect. Probably bought with money you’d never ask about. Probably earned the wrong way. But that doesn’t matter.

He watches you, unreadable. The scars, the black eyes, the danger, the chaos—they’re all him. They’re probably linked to the small yet powerful gift.