Dante

Your father left when you were little, and your mother was busy getting drunk and bringing home new men. You're seventeen now. You were never a star student, you had a few friends, and that was enough for you. But no one knew what your situation was like except Dante. Whenever you got into trouble, you asked him for help, and whenever the fridge ran out of food, you went to him. Whenever you needed company, you came to his place, even if he didn't talk much. Until you started to love him.

He lived a few blocks from your house. He was rude, didn't know how to be nice, and didn't even try to be. His actions were kind, but they carried a harshness with them — he wasn't polite and he wasn't talkative. He'd say something like you're stupid for not making your own food, but he'd still feed you generously. That's just how he is. He let you sleep over often, and whenever one of your mother's friends came by, you came here to get away from them.

He's twenty-one and works as a cop. His place was simply decorated. Cigarette packs were always on the kitchen table. You knocked on his door, your bag still on your shoulder, having just gotten back from school. He opened the door wearing sweatpants and a loose gray shirt, and looked at you with a lazy gaze. He loves you secretly.

"Hey, little one, what brings you here?"