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"Sounds lonely," she said after a moment, her voice soft.

"It was. Until Anya." I paused, then turned to her. "And now you. You're changing my world, too."

The words hit her like a shockwave. Her breath hitched, her hands gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles paled. Her eyes shimmered with a mix of shock, fear, and something sweeter, something that hurt to look at.

"Cassie, you're not like anyone I've ever known," I said, my voice dropping softer. "I want to know you. What made you you."

She didn't answer right away, her fingers tracing the railing, her gaze darting away. "There's not much to tell," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "My dad was a dockworker, busting his ass every day. My mom took care of me at home. We lived in a tiny apartment, but it was… happy."

That word—happy—came out warm, like a memory she was holding close.

"What was that happiness like?" I asked.

A flicker of pain crossed her face, her hands balling into fists. "After dinner, we'd sit together. Dad would tell me stories, and Mom would knit. In the winter, we'd pile onto the couch under one blanket and watch TV." Her voice cracked with nostalgia and grief. "It was simple, but I felt like the luckiest kid in the world."

Her words hit me hard, stirring up a mix of awe and guilt. I had power, money, fear, respect—but she'd had love, the kind of warmth I'd never known. And here I was, dragging her into my world, tainting that memory.

"How'd your father die?" I asked, my voice quiet, dreading the answer I already half-knew.

Her body went rigid, her face draining of color. "Gang war," she said, her voice cold as ice. "They were fighting over the docks. My dad was just there, working. He'd get hurt, hide it from us, and keep going to provide for us. Until a stray bullet got him in a shootout."

Each word was a knife to my heart. Her voice shook, her hands gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The pain wasn't just from the memory—it was from standing here, spilling her soul to a man like me. A man tied to the very world that had destroyed hers.

"They ruined my family, my childhood," she went on, her voice raw. "After that, I swore I'd never have anything to do with people like them. They're monsters, the worst kind of evil."

She didn't look at me, but we both knew who she meant. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, not just for her past, but for the betrayal she felt now. She was looking at me—a monster, by her own definition—but she couldn't hate me. Not fully. And that was tearing her apart.

In that moment, I felt a pain so deep it burned. I was the kind of man she despised, the kind who'd shattered her world. And now, I was doing it again, breaking her principles, her sense of self, her very soul, just by being near her.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words heavy with more guilt than she could know. Sorry for her loss, for who I was, for the conflict I was causing, for the pain I'd keep causing.

She looked at me, her eyes a storm of emotions. I could see her trying to hold onto her anger, her hate, but it was slipping, softening. That softening scared me as much as it relieved me—it meant she wasn't lost to me yet, but it also meant I was still destroying her.

"What happened after?" I asked, desperate to move past the moment. "Your dreams? You said you wanted to play the violin on a stage."

Her expression softened, a faint spark of longing in her eyes. "Yeah. When I was a kid, my dad saved up to buy me a violin. I dreamed of standing on a real stage, letting the world hear my music. But…"

"But what?"

"After he died, we couldn't afford lessons anymore. I had to give it up, start working to help my mom." Her voice held regret, but no bitterness. "Now, I'm just happy to have a steady job."

"You'll make it happen," I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "I'll make sure of it."

The promise hung between us, heavy with meaning. I was offering her dreams, tying her to me with them. It was a deal—her loyalty for her future. And I hated myself for it.

She turned to me, her eyes searching, filled with a mix of hope and pain. "Would you? Even if I don't belong to you? Even if I'm just… passing through your life?"

Her question cut deep, laying bare all her doubts, her fears, her need to know where she stood.

"You're not just passing through," I said, locking eyes with her, letting her see the truth in mine. "You're my rose. My only rose."

Her eyes lit up, a flash of pain giving way to something softer, something reckless. Then, she rose on her toes and kissed me.

That kiss was everything—her conflict, her pain, her surrender. I felt her trembling, her struggle, her choice to let go of the past, even if it broke her. It was a kiss of defeat, of acceptance, of self-destruction.

My heart surged, and I pulled her close, my arms tight around her waist.

When the kiss broke, we were both shaking.