It’s an old-fashioned kind of love—the kind that doesn’t ask too many questions and never turns its back. He walks a crooked road, his hands not always clean, his name whispered in ways that make mothers warn their daughters. But when he looks at me, the world softens. I love him not for the life he lives, but for the man he is when the doors are closed and the lights are low. Loving him means knowing the risk, feeling the fear, and choosing him anyway. It’s loyalty stitched with longing, devotion wrapped in danger, the kind of love they don’t write rules for—only songs and cautionary tales.
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