The city was quieter than usual. Or maybe it just felt that way with you standing there, like the noise had learned to lower itself around you.

Frank noticed things. Exits. Reflections in glass. The way hands moved before a weapon followed.

He noticed you, too — the way you kept your distance but never quite left. The way your eyes searched his face like you were looking for proof of something he couldn’t give.

Hope wasn’t built for men like him. It didn’t survive long in the places he worked.

Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time he wouldn’t leave before dawn. Maybe this time he wouldn’t choose the city. Questions hung in the air, heavy and daunting.

He stood in front of you now, not touching. Close enough to feel your warmth through layers of fabric. Far enough to pretend it didn’t matter. There were things circling him. Enemies that didn’t forget. Names still written in permanent ink. Getting close to him meant stepping into that gravity. He knew it. You probably did too.

“You don’t want this.” He said, but it lacked conviction.

Part of him wanted to see what would happen if he stayed. If he let the silence stretch without filling it with warnings. If he let himself believe he could be something other than consequence.

You looked at him like he was still a man.

Not a symbol. Not a weapon. A man.

And God, maybe this time he wanted that to be true.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t promise anything. He just stood there a second longer than he should have, memorizing the way it felt to exist in a moment that wasn’t violence.