The dorm's heavy door slammed shut behind Alex, its creak swallowed by the dim hallway's stale air, thick with the scent of burnt popcorn and cheap detergent. Faded flyers for campus bands and pizza deals clung to scuffed walls, lit by flickering fluorescents that buzzed like a bad headache.
Inside his room, chaos reigned—a sagging mattress with worn sheets, a desk buried under textbooks, unpaid bills, and empty ramen packets, a window rattling with the October wind, letting in the city's hum of horns and distant club beats. Alex collapsed onto the bed, his heart still racing from Francis's parting touch—*fighter*—and the weight of his words, warm and possessive.
His phone buzzed—Mia, relentless: *"YOU FOUGHT A GANG? CALL ME NOW!"* He groaned, tossing it onto the desk, its screen glowing like a taunt. *I'm no victim. But what the hell am I doing?*He reached for his backpack to dig out his laptop, then froze, his stomach plummeting.
*My backpack.* The realization hit like a kick: he'd left it at the cafe, slumped against the booth's wall, stuffed with his thesis papers—weeks of equations, scribbled notes, his ticket to passing this semester.
*No, no, no.* Panic clawed at him, his mind spiraling to his professor's stern face, the threat of failing, repeating a year. *I can't afford that. Rent's overdue, shifts barely cover food.* His chest tightened, the weight of his broke student life crushing.
*I have to get it back. Now.*Alex bolted upright, snatching his frayed jacket from a chair, and sprinted out, the dorm's creaky stairs groaning under his sneakers.
The city streets assaulted him—neon signs buzzing, their pink and green glow dancing in rain-slicked puddles, the air heavy with fried dough from food stalls, spicy tacos, and the sharp sting of exhaust.
Crowds pushed past—giggling students, a vendor barking about cheap hats, a busker strumming a guitar under a flickering streetlight. Alex weaved through them, breath hitching, the cold biting his fingers.
*The cafe's close. I can make it.*He rounded a corner, the cafe's neon "Open" sign glowing like a beacon, its pink-blue light spilling onto the cracked sidewalk. But a sharp shout froze him.
In the alley beside the cafe, shadows swarmed—Francis, Jax, and Rico, surrounded by ten hooded figures, their boots crunching on gravel, dark jackets blending with the night. The rival crew, larger and bolder than before, their voices dripping with menace. "Slipping, huh?" the leader sneered, his knuckles scarred, circling Francis.
"Too busy chasing your boy to watch your turf."
Another hood cracked his knuckles, grinning.
"Time to pay."
Francis stood like a wall, his leather jacket creaking, his grin sharp and untouchable, fists loose but ready. Jax squared his shoulders, his burly frame tense, while Rico's hand hovered near his jacket pocket, eyes darting.
Ten against three was brutal odds, even for Francis, the strongest man Alex knew—his movements always precise, lethal, untouchable.
*He won't get hit,*
Alex thought, his pulse spiking. *But Jax and Rico... they're in trouble.*
His self-defense training kicked in—community center drills from high school, learned to survive his rough neighborhood's threats. *And my bag's in there. I'm not losing it.*
* Alex's heart thundered, but his training steadied him, drowning the fear. *I'm not losing those papers. And I'm not letting them get overwhelmed.* He sprinted into the alley, sneakers skidding on gravel, and shouted, "Back off!" The scarred leader turned, his smirk faltering as Alex charged, ducking a wild punch and grabbing his wrist, twisting it with a sharp jerk—a move from those old classes.
The leader grunted, stumbling into another hood, their shoulders colliding.
Francis's head snapped toward Alex, his eyes widening in shock, then flashing with amusement, his grin blazing.
"Love, you're out of your mind!" he called, dodging a hood's swing with effortless grace, his fist snapping out to catch another in the jaw, dropping him instantly.
No one touched Francis—his movements were a blur, precise and untouchable, every strike landing like he'd choreographed the fight. Jax tackled a hood, pinning him to the ground, his grin wild.
"Kid's a damn lunatic!" Rico, blocking a kick, shot Alex a stunned glance, his scowl twitching into a smirk.
Alex pivoted, his muscles screaming as he blocked a fist with his forearm, shoving a hood against the brick wall, its graffiti—jagged skulls, bold reds—blurring in his vision. Another hood lunged, but Alex sidestepped, landing a sharp elbow to the guy's ribs, sending him gasping.
The rival crew was relentless, their numbers overwhelming, but sloppy—Alex's quick footwork and Francis's lethal precision turned the tide. Francis weaved through four hoods, his fists a storm, not a single hand landing on him, his grin never faltering.
Jax took a graze to the arm, cursing, while Rico dodged a knife, his jacket tearing. The alley echoed with grunts, curses, and the scrape of boots on gravel. Alex's hands shook, adrenaline pumping, but he held his ground, blocking and striking until the rival crew faltered.
The scarred leader spat, "We'll be back," before retreating with his nine men, their shadows swallowed by the night.
Alex panted, his breath fogging, knuckles stinging from a scrape against the wall. Francis grabbed his shoulder, his grin wide, eyes blazing with pride. "You're trouble, love," he said, voice warm with praise, echoing their last fight. "Jumping into a ten-man fight? You're a damn wildfire." He ruffled Alex's hair, his touch teasing but proud, sending heat through Alex's chest.
Jax laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Kid's crazier than you, boss!" Rico nodded, his smirk faint but impressed. "Didn't think he had it in him."
Alex brushed off his jacket, smirking despite the ache in his arms. "I'm not your damsel," he said, voice steady, echoing a moment from their earlier cafe visit. "Needed my bag. And you were outnumbered." *Why did I jump in? For him?*Francis's grin softened, his hand lingering on Alex's arm. "Let's get your bag, fighter." He led the way into the cafe, Jax and Rico trailing, their breaths heavy, faces lit with tired grins.*
* Alex caught his breath, the alley's damp air still stinging his lungs as they stepped into the cafe's warmth. "I'm staying," he said, voice firm, sliding into their booth. "My backpack's here. Thesis papers. If I lose them, I'm done—repeat a year, can't afford it." His words spilled out, raw with panic, the weight of his broke life crashing down. *No papers, no degree, no way out.* "Plus, I'm starving," he added, his smirk shaky but defiant.
Francis raised an eyebrow, his grin twitching. "You fought ten guys for *papers* and a cake?" he teased, but his eyes held respect. "You're crazier than me, love." He slid into the booth beside Alex, their shoulders brushing, while Jax and Rico took the table by the door, their breaths heavy, smirking.
The cafe's neon glow bathed the booth in pink and blue, the air thick with coffee, burnt sugar, and syrup baked into the vinyl seats. The jukebox hummed a slow '90s ballad, mingling with the clink of dishes. Their booth was untouched, Alex's backpack slumped against the wall, thesis papers peeking out, dog-eared but safe. The chocolate cake and milkshake sat there too, frosting glossy, glass sweating. Alex exhaled, relief flooding him, his legs shaky as he sank deeper into the booth.
Alex flagged the waiter—the lanky guy with the lip piercing. "Can I... resume eating?" he asked, gesturing to the cake and milkshake, voice half-embarrassed. The waiter shrugged. "Go for it."
Francis burst out laughing, a rich sound that echoed through the cafe, drawing glances from a trucker at the counter and a couple in the corner. Jax slapped the table, grinning, while Rico's smirk grew, his shoulders shaking. "You fight like a pro, then worry about your damn cake?" Francis said, wiping his eyes, his grin wide. "You're killing me, love."
Alex's cheeks flushed, but he grinned, sipping the milkshake, its cold sweetness grounding him. "My chocolate... don't judge," he muttered, digging into the cake, the rich flavor melting on his tongue.
"Hmmmm... still heaven." The group's laughter softened, their tired smiles warming the booth, the fight's adrenaline fading into a strange camaraderie. Jax leaned back, stealing a fry from Rico's plate, while Rico muttered something about "keeping watch," his eyes flicking to the windows.*
* Francis leaned closer, his arm resting on the back of the booth, fingers grazing Alex's shoulder, a warm, grounding touch. "Alright, love," he said, voice low, cutting through the jukebox's hum. "Why'd you jump into a ten-man fight? You could've snuck in, grabbed your bag. You call me annoying, so why risk your neck for me?" His eyes searched Alex's, curious but serious, the neon catching the intensity in his hazel gaze.
Alex set his fork down, the cake's sweetness fading as Francis's question hit. His mind spiraled, half-lost in memories of his past—dark streets, dodging fists, the community center's worn mats where he learned to fight to survive. *Why did I do it? The papers... but him too?* He tried to find words, but they tangled, his exhaustion weighing heavier than the fight's bruises. "I... don't know," he muttered, voice barely audible, his eyes drifting to the table's sticky surface.
*Need to change the topic.* "It's just... I couldn't let you get swarmed," he said, dodging, his voice shaky. "And my papers—can't lose them." Unknowingly, he leaned into Francis's arm, the warmth of the touch pulling him in, his body sagging from the adrenaline crash.
His mind lingered on those old nights—alone, scared, fighting to prove he wasn't weak—and he sighed, a tired, "Aaahhhhhhh... this is soo much tiring," slipping out, louder than he meant, forgetting where he was, who he was leaning into.
Francis froze, his grin faltering, eyes widening with a mix of shock and something softer, almost loving, his arm tightening slightly around Alex's shoulder. The booth seemed to still, Jax's fry-stealing pausing, Rico's scowl softening as they caught the moment. Francis's gaze held Alex, a flicker of awe in his eyes, like he'd glimpsed something precious.
Alex blinked, still half-lost, unaware of how close he'd pressed into Francis's embrace, the warmth anchoring him. Francis's voice dropped, softer now, but sharp with curiosity. "Love, hold up," he said, his tone probing, a teasing edge creeping back. "Where'd you learn to fight like that? You moved like a pro, like you do this every day. Why's a normal college kid like you taking down half a crew?"
**End of Chapter 3**
Alex froze, Francis's question slicing through the cafe's hum, the jukebox's ballad fading to a distant pulse. His heart pounded, the fight's adrenaline mixing with the weight of his past—those classes, those streets, that need to survive. *He wants to know. But I'm not ready.* His phone buzzed—Mia: *"TEN GUYS? YOU'RE INSANE!"*—but he ignored it, Francis's arm still warm on his shoulder, his gaze pinning him in place. *What do I say?*