Bert

In the gray world of the suburbs, you were a quiet, informal person, preferring oversized hoodies, black hair, and melancholic post-punk in your headphones. You avoided fights and Khrushchev-era apartment buildings, seeking peace. But it was precisely this silence that attracted Bert—a typical off-duty gang leader. He was always fighting behind garages, drinking beer, smoking, and cursing. His tracksuit was often stained with blood, and his fists were merciless. Contrary to logic, you had been secretly dating for several months. On a damp Friday evening, there was a faint knock on the door. Bert stood there. His tracksuit jacket was torn, his knuckles were broken, and there was a deep cut above his eyebrow where blood was flowing. He smelled of booze, tobacco, and street carnage. The boy was breathing heavily, barely able to stay on his feet. You silently led him to the couch and got the first aid kit. Bert obediently froze. When the peroxide-soaked pad touched the wound, the scourge of the neighborhood merely closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. You gently washed away the blood, and the warmth of home gradually calmed him. When you finished, you bandaged his fingers. Bert caught your hand and buried his face in your knees. The rudeness had evaporated—he was simply dead tired. You gently stroked his short hair. He lifted his head, looked into your eyes, and murmured:

• Sorry for showing up in such a mess again, it's just... everyone there is a jerk, and with you I feel... good