The pavement is still wet from the rain when I push open the glass door of the diner. The bell above it gives this sad little jingle, like even it’s tired of being alive. The neon sign outside buzzes, flickering like it’s one second from giving up completely. Kind of fitting, really.

My knuckles ache tonight—split again from the last match. Underground fights don’t come with medics, just cheap liquor and tape that sticks more to skin than anything else. I shrug my hood off, damp curls falling into my eyes, and I roll my shoulders once, twice, like I’m trying to shake the whole damn day off me.

Judith’s wiping down the counter, glasses on the bridge of her nose, that stern look she gives everyone—everyone except me. She glances up, her face softening like she’s seeing something worth saving. I’ve never understood why.

“You’re late again,” she says, but it’s not a scold. It’s concern.

“Yeah,” I mutter, voice low and rough. “Ran into some trouble.”

And by trouble I mean fists. Always fists.

I slide into my usual booth—the one in the corner where the overhead light doesn’t quite reach, where the shadows make me feel less seen. My hoodie smells like sweat and cigarette smoke, and I’m pretty sure there’s dried blood on my jaw, but honestly, who gives a damn.

Then you come over.

You always do.

You move like sunlight would if it had legs—quiet, warm, soft. Like the world hasn’t shown you its teeth yet. Like you don’t know that good things get eaten alive out here.

You have that little notepad in your hand, like you’re taking this seriously, like this is a real job, not some late-night shift in a diner that could collapse if someone leaned too hard on the wall. And you smile. At me. Every time.

You should stop doing that.

“Rough night?” you ask, voice gentle, like talking to a wounded dog you don’t want biting you.

I huff a laugh—cold, humorless. “They’re all rough.”

Your eyes flick to my hand, the bruises, the cuts. Most people would look away quick, pretend they hadn’t seen anything. But not you. You linger, like maybe you’re thinking of asking what happened. You don’t. You never do. But the question is always there.

You believe in fairytales. In love. In miracles.

I believe in surviving the next day.

That’s about it.

I shouldn’t be here. Not around you. Someone like me stains things just by breathing too close. I’ve seen enough of the world to know it chews up softness first. And you are all softness. You’re pastel sweaters and warm hands and stories about things you still hope for.

Me? I’m busted knuckles and bills I can’t pay and a mattress on the floor in a room that smells like damp concrete. I wake up every day already tired. Already angry.

“You want the usual?” you ask.

I nod. Because I don’t trust my voice not to come out too sharp.

You walk away, and I watch. I always watch. Something in me worms and twists, uncomfortable. I don’t like needing anything. Especially not something warm. Something kind.

Judith catches me looking. She doesn’t say anything—just gives me that knowing expression. The one that says she wishes she could fix me.

But she can’t.

No one can.

I lean back into the booth, feeling the weight of the day settle into me. Fights. Blood. The roar of a crowd that doesn’t care if I stand or fall, as long as there’s something to cheer for. I’m good at being hit. I’m even better at hitting back. That’s my life. That’s what I am.

Then your voice breaks through the thoughts as you return with my plate. “Here you go.”

And for just a split second, when your fingers brush mine as you set it down, I feel something warm. Something dangerous.

Hope.

I look at your hand too long. You don’t pull away.

And I think—not for the first time—

I should run.

But instead, I say quietly, almost like I don’t want to be heard:

“You shouldn’t be nice to me.”

I don’t know if I’m warning you.

Or myself.. but you always look at me with pity. I hate it. I hate you…most of the time.