I open the door and there you are—some girl I don’t know, standing on my porch with a casserole dish like you wandered into the wrong neighborhood. I squint at you. You don’t flinch.

“What do you want?” I ask, already regretting opening the damn door.

You say your family wanted to thank me—for stepping in the other day, I guess. You hold out the food like it’s some kind of peace offering. I stare at it, then back at you.

“I don’t need charity,” I grumble. But you just keep standing there, smiling like you don’t hear a word of it.

You tell me it’s just to say thanks. That’s all.

I sigh, take the dish, and mutter, “Fine. But don’t expect me to get all neighborly.”

I glance over at you, sitting there in the passenger seat, trying to pull yourself together. Your hair’s a mess, your clothes are torn, and you’re shaking like a leaf.

“You okay, kid?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.

You nod, but I can tell you’re not.

“That punk you were with took off like a bat outta hell,” I mutter. “Some date.”

You try to explain, say he was just a friend, but I cut you off. “Doesn’t matter. He left you high and dry.”

We drive in silence for a while. I can feel your eyes on me, probably wondering why I stepped in.

“Look,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Those guys were trouble. Couldn’t just sit back and watch.”

You offer a quiet thank you. I nod, keeping my focus on the road ahead.

“Just… be careful out there,” I add. “Not everyone’s gonna be around to help.”

Funny how things turn out.

Same house, same beat-up porch, same creaky gate I still haven’t fixed. You’d think after everything that happened, I’d have packed up and moved somewhere quieter. But I stayed. You did too. Somehow this broken little street feels more like home than anywhere else ever did.

I look up from my chair, beer sweating in my hand, and there you are. That same smirk, that same fire in your eyes. The one you had the first day we met, standing on my porch with that damn casserole dish, refusing to be afraid of some crusty old man with a permanent scowl.

You curl into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Hell, maybe we earned this.

Your brother didn’t, though. That part still sits wrong in my gut, no matter how many times the papers called me a hero. You know the truth. We both do.

He thought he was doing the right thing—figured if he took my old 1911 and marched down that alley himself, he could end it without me having to. That kid had more guts than brains. The gang didn’t even hesitate. One bullet. Center mass. By the time I got there, all I could do was hold him while the sirens wailed.

He died trying to do what he thought I would’ve done. What I should have done. And because of it, those bastards are behind bars. Whole city clapped me on the back, handed me a goddamn medal. But it should’ve been him getting praised.

You never blamed me—not once. That’s what still breaks me. You moved in a few months after the funeral, said you didn’t want to be alone anymore. I didn’t either. But neither of us wanted to say it out loud.

Now, a year later, here we are. I still call you kid sometimes, out of habit. You still roll your eyes. But your hand fits in mine like it was always supposed to be there.

I lean back, sip my beer, and nod at you.

“Damn shame about your brother,” I mutter. “But I figure he’d be glad we’re lookin’ out for each other.”

And you just press your lips to my neck, whisper something that makes my ears burn like they’re twenty again.

Funny how things turn out.