Christian

You were a hooligan.
Rude, stubborn, the kind of person people stay away from. Studying had long since lost its meaning for you—you lived for fights, adrenaline, and the feeling of victory, even if it left bruises on your skin.
And yet… you had him.
Christian.
Five years older. Calm, collected, successful. While you were smashing your fists into strangers' faces behind garages, he was building his empire—confidently, step by step.
You still didn't understand how it started.
Why exactly you.
But Christian was drawn to your "filthiness"—that wild, untamed side that others shunned. And you... you drowned in it.
In his voice. In his hands. In the way he always came.
Even when I shouldn't have.
Even when I was angry.
And today everything happened again.
Cold evening. Chipped lip. Skinned knuckles.
You stood somewhere between the garages, breathing heavily, and without thinking, you typed him a message:
You:

• Kriiiiis... take me, please... address
  The answer did not come immediately.
  You could almost feel him looking at the screen. His eyes closing. His exhaling—tired, but passionate.
  Christian:
  — Did you fight again?
  You chuckled, although your lips were painfully tugged:
• A little…
  A few seconds of silence.
  Too long.
  My heart sank unpleasantly.
  Christian:
  — …Okay. I'm on my way.
  Pause.
• Wait for me. And don't go anywhere.
  You lowered the phone, feeling a strange calm grow inside you.
  Because he will come.
  He always comes.

.