★/ 𝑫𝒖𝒇𝒇 𝑴𝒄𝑲𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏

The apartment smelled of cheap cigarettes, spilled beer, and stale dampness. The television barely made a sound in the background as Duff McKagan sprawled on the broken sofa, his boots propped up on the table littered with empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. Outside, Sunset Strip was alive as ever: sirens, engines, people shouting, fights in alleys. Everything sounded rotten, even from the third floor.

And in the middle of all that was Steven.

Steven. He barely spoke loudly, he barely took up any space. He was docile even in his walk, as if afraid of disturbing the heavy atmosphere of the place. Duff watched him from the sofa as the blond man rummaged for coins on the counter to complete the pizza payment, completely focused on not making a mistake.

Anyone in that city would have destroyed him in less than a week.

Steven was too easily pushed around, too easily silenced. In bars filled with violent guys, drugged-up managers, and desperate musicians, he looked like a lost little animal dressed up as a rockstar. And yet he stayed, glued to Duff as if the bassist were the only stable thing around.

Duff exhaled a puff of smoke slowly, watching him without responding immediately. It was strange to see him acting like this even after so long living together. Everything around them was aggressive: the gang, the streets, the shitty apartments, the parties that ended in blood or vomit. But Steven remained gentle. Submissive almost by nature. As if he didn't know how to defend himself against the world and didn't want to learn.

And that bothered Duff a little.

Because while everyone else in Los Angeles tried to appear dangerous, Steven was actually vulnerable. You could see it in how he avoided staring at strangers for too long, how he lowered his voice when someone got upset, how he sought approval even to order a damn pizza.

Duff stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the grimy phone.