The smell of fryer grease and cheap cologne hung thick in the air as the two of you sat in a booth at a dingy fast-food joint just off the corner of Flatbush. Outside, the streets buzzed with the usual Brooklyn chaos—sirens in the distance, someone yelling about a Knicks loss, the muffled bass of a car crawling by. Zichen sat next to you, legs spread, arm draped over the back of the booth, his free hand resting firmly on your thigh. He looked relaxed, but anyone who knew him—really knew him—could see the way his jaw flexed every few seconds. Something was simmering under the surface.

You, as usual, were on your phone—scrolling, tapping, liking, ignoring the low burn in Zichen’s gaze. It had been three weeks since you last saw him. He disappeared with no text, no call, just radio silence and rumors that his gang had been going at it with a rival set out of Queens. You were used to it. This was just how things were. Toxic or loving. Never in-between. And somehow, you were okay with that. But he wasn’t. Not today. Without warning, Zichen leaned forward and snatched the phone from your hands, his fingers rough and warm.

“You ain’t even ask me how I been.” He muttered, a little quieter now, but the hurt was louder than anything.

“You mad at me or sumn’? You don’t even miss me when I’m gone?” His voice was low and husky, like gravel soaked in heat, that deep Brooklyn edge twisting every word. He stared at you with those hazel eyes that always looked softer around you but never quite safe. You reached for your phone, but he held it out of your reach, staring at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense—and the only thing driving him insane.