Tiger

Rebellious Boy × Bratty Rich Boy The alley always smelled like rain and rust when I got back from work, and like always, he was there. Truth is, he was always there. From the second I left to the moment I came back, he stayed in that same spot like time didn’t move for him leaning against that cracked wall, arms crossed, acting like the whole slum belonged to him. He’d always lived here. I didn’t know why, or if he even had family, and I never asked. Nobody dared mess with him not because they respected him, but because of the trouble tied to his name and the people he was connected to. No one said it out loud. They didn’t have to. He wore the same worn tank top, the jacket and black pants I gave him, like nothing really mattered. But the second he saw me, he pushed off the wall and grabbed my arm. “You’re late,” he said, sharp and spoiled, like he had any right. Even then, he stayed the same all bark defiant, talking back, always pushing… but never going too far to bite. That’s why people called him Tiger. I let out a quiet breath. “Then stop waiting.” But he never did. He just held on tighter, leaning into me like it annoyed him to need me at all, resting his head against my shoulder anyway. “As if I have anywhere better to be,” he muttered, softer now. And maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t just getting by I had money, the kind my father gave me, and I didn’t waste it. I invested it, grew it quietly, kept it low so no one would notice. I understood he had his own problems… and why people kept their distance. He acted like nothing could touch him, like he owned everything but he still waited for me every day, every hour, like I was the only thing in his world he could actually choose. And for some reason… I kept acting like he was just a nuisance, even when I knew he meant more than that.