Chapter 1

Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro lives in a quiet, plant-filled apartment in the rougher part of Chicago. She’s twenty-one, broke, vegan, and studying animal science at the local community college. She cries over rescue dogs, talks to her plants like they’re her best friends, and thinks violence is something that only happens in action movies. Her life is calm, predictable, and painfully ordinary.

Until he bleeds all over her floor.

Adriano Capone is violence in human form—shot, hunted, and very much the kind of man her sweet little heart should run from. He’s everything she hates: violent, dangerous, cruel in the way only a mafia prince can be.

He’s everything she’s sworn to avoid but he's hurt and Maddie has a soft spot for lost things.

So, she stitches him up.

And he stitches himself into her life.

He's the devil incarnate.

She's never even slapped someone.

But fate doesn't care about perfect matches...

It threw fire into the hands of a flower girl.

Preface

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental and unintentional.

This book, including all its content, is protected by copyright laws. All rights are reserved by the author, and no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or otherwise utilized in any form or by any means—whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the copyright holder. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of this work is prohibited and may result in legal action.

Copyright © 2025 by Jane Doe Writings. All rights reserved.

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TRIGGER WARNINGS!

The following book contains imagery that some readers may find distressing. This book contains multiple explicit scenes that graphically simulate sexual assault, although every encounter is fully consensual.

•Strong Language

•Graphic Violence and Gore

•Murder/Assassination

•Torture (both physical and psychological)

•Gun Violence

•Explicit Sexual Scenes

This is a dark romance, which means love is messy, pain is part of the journey, and healing comes at a cost. Please take care of yourself while reading, and know that it’s okay to step away if anything becomes too overwhelming.

Your safety and comfort matter more than any chapter.

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POINT OF VIEWS - POVs.

This book is written in dual point of view. That said, not every chapter will alternate perspectives. The POV shifts will happen organically, when it makes the most sense for the storyline. Sometimes you’ll stay with one character for several chapters if that’s where the emotional weight or action is strongest.

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UPDATES SCHEDULE

I post one new chapter every day, though there may occasionally be a skipped day here and there. Life can get a little chaotic, especially since I’m currently juggling this story with the demands of medical school (yes, it's as intense as it sounds).

Please know that I’m doing my very best to keep updates consistent while still balancing exams, hospital rotations, and everything else in between. Your patience and support mean the world to me, and every comment, like, and read keeps me motivated to keep going even on the tough days

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you so much for choosing to read my story, truly, it means the world to me. There are so many incredible books out there, and the fact that you decided to spend time with mine is something I don’t take for granted.

If you enjoy the story, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback not only helps me grow as a writer but also keeps me company during those long, solitary hours when it’s just me, my coffee, and my characters emotionally ruining each other.

Thank you again for being here. I can’t wait to share more of this journey with you.

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With all my love,

Jane Doe Writings.

X O X O 💖

Chapter 1 - Welcome to my fucked-up fairytale.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The air stank of gasoline and gunpowder. Concrete dust clung to my tongue. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm howled like a dying animal.

I ducked behind the hood of a burned-out Cadillac, reloading with blood-slick fingers. My breath came ragged, fire scraping up my ribs.

“Arturo?” I barked, twisting to look over my shoulder.

Nothing but a dying wheeze and then silence.

Fuck.

A shadow moved to my left. I popped out, squeezed the trigger... click.

Empty, it was fucking empty.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin kidding me.”

The last mag was dry. My knuckles were bleeding, my ribs were cracked. One eye was already swelling shut.

Across the alley, some masked asshole with a knife stepped forward, and I gave him a smile that tasted like blood.

“Hold this, stronzo,” I muttered and whipped the empty piece of metal straight at his face.

It hit him right in the eye and he let out a howl. And I did what any mobster would do in this situation if he wanted to survive—I ran.

I didn’t limp, didn’t crawl. I ran, my legs were buckling with every step because my body was wrecked. My shirt was torn open, sticky with blood. My shoulder was hanging by the grace of God or maybe just rage.

But adrenaline was still pumping, whispering in my ear, more like yelling... Move, motherfucker. Move.

I wasn't even supposed to be out here tonight. I just came to get a quick recon but nooo, I had to walk into an ambush like a dumbass.

There’d been some noise in this part of town and I came to sniff around, not step in a pile of shit.

Vince told me to bring more men. Said I’d need backup. I laughed in his face because I always thought overkill was for amateurs.

Now look at me, two dead soldiers, a Glock jamming in my hand, and some bastard car alarm wailing like it's mourning the whole scene.

So yeah, maybe next time I'll listen to the guy who triple-majored in war, murder, and paranoia.

Judging by the accent and designer boots of the men ordering around, he was definitely Italian. Probably that third-gen Napolitano knockoff crew trying to play big dog.

My boots pounded the pavement. Behind me, bullets chewed through the air. One hit my shoulder and burned like someone had poured lava into my veins. I didn’t stop. Pain is just noise for me. I’ve heard worse screams coming out of my basement.

I rounded the corner of a loading dock and came face to face with three of them. Black masks. Kevlar. Military stance. Not fucking amateurs.

“You boys lost?” I cracked my knuckles. “Wrong side of Chicago.”

One charged. I sidestepped, grabbed his arm, twisted till it cracked like a wishbone, and shoved his body in front of mine just as the bullets flew to use him as a meat shield. The other two hesitated just long enough for me to draw the knife from my boot and sink it into the second guy’s thigh, I pushed it deep and upward.

That was my last weapon. Funny. I never thought I’d live long enough to actually run out.

But then the third came in, his mask falling off as he slammed me against the steel wall. I headbutted him. He blinked and looked dazed for a second then smiled at me through bloodied teeth like a fucking lunatic. So I did it again harder this time. I felt his nose explode, bone slicing skin as blood sprayed across my face. He snarled, reeled back and drove a fist into my gut. I felt something tear and muffled a groan.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” I grunted, “Hit me like you mean it.”

He did. A left hook opened my eyebrow. Blood poured down into my eye. I stumbled and barely caught myself on the edge of a crate.

Arturo's body was crumpled ten feet away, his neck bent wrong. Dario was sprawled near the alley exit, his gun by his fingertips and his fingers were no longer moving.

Fuck, I'm gonna fucking die.

The masked man lunged forward, I caught his arm, and twisted it before slamming his face into my knee. I kept doing it until his mask cracked.

He tackled me into the ground. My head bounced off the concrete. A flash of white. Then red. I saw stars and then I saw my mother’s face briefly and thought, it's too early for that reunion.

He got on top of me, punching, and I jammed my thumb into his eye socket. He screamed and I threw him off. I scrambled to my knees, blood dripping from my mouth. My shoulder burned where the bullet wound sting.

I got up, slowly, wobbling, half-dead, half-mad.

He was crawling for his gun. I stomped on his hand and his bones snapped.

“Wrong city,” I whispered, kicking the piece away. “Wrong fucking guy.”

Then I drove the heel of my boot into his temple.

Five more.

I didn’t hear them at first but I felt them. Their boots slapped against the wet pavement, and I bolted across the alley.

My ribs were screaming at me, my shoulder throbbed and my legs barely worked but adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.

I took a hard right and launched myself up the back stairwell of some beat-up residential buildings. My vision was going dark but I climbed like the devil was nipping at my heels because he was.

Bullets sparked against the brick just as I hauled myself over the first landing.

“Fucking finally,” one of them growled below.

I kicked the third-floor window and the glass shattered around me, but I didn’t go in, I did it to distract them. I kept climbing.

I reached the stairwell door on the fifth floor, shouldered it open and staggered inside. I pulled myself through a hallway, it reeked of mold and decades of cigarette smoke.

Then I saw a door cracked open, Apartment 3C.

I stumbled toward it, wheezing.

Please be empty.

Please don’t have a dog.

Please don’t have a shotgun behind the couch.

I threw myself carefully against the door, trying not to leave blood behind and slid inside. I slammed the door shut in time, twisted the lock with shaking hands. Chain. Deadbolt. Even wedged a chair under the handle.

My blood smeared the hardwood floor. My vision pulsed black. I didn’t know how I was still breathing.

And then, I heard a small sound, like someone trying to suppress a scream.

The exact same noise Aurelia’s rubber duck makes when you squeeze it too hard.

I turned, slow.

Standing behind me was a woman, barefoot on the hardwood, in shorts that showed off long, tan legs and wearing a thin t-shirt clinging to soft curves.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open.

Frozen like a deer staring down headlights, except the headlights were me, and I looked like hell had spit me back out.

Fuck.

She blinked once.

Twice.

Then she inhaled.

About to scream.

I lunged.

It was not fast, not clean, it was just fucking desperation.

My hand clamped over her mouth as we stumbled backward. Her back hit the wall harder than intended. Too hard. My bad.

“Shh—” I breathed, barely above a whisper, as blood dripped from my jaw, my shoulder seizing. “Please. Don’t scream.”

Her entire body shivered with fear, her breath was hot against my palm, her chest rising too fast. And the next second, tears slid down her cheeks and landed onto my blood riddled hands that were pressed against her lips.

I have never seen a person cry so damn fast.

I held my free hand up, fingers spread like I was coaxing a stray cat.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, trying not to wheeze through broken ribs, “I just need five minutes. Just... five.”

Her eyes snapped to my face and damn, I could see the horror hit her like a truck.

There was a gash splitting my brow, leaking blood down the side of my face. My lip was busted wide open, nose probably fractured, and the bullet hole in my shirt was still trickling. Yeah, I looked like I crawled out of a warzone and into her living room because I did.

Her lips moved beneath my bloodied hand before she nodded but it was so slow and cautious, like I was a wild dog with a grenade in my mouth.

Good girl.

Then I heard them, boots stomping outside. They were just fucking too many men hunting me. They wanted me alive, had to. If they meant to kill me, they would've filled my body with bullets back on that fire escape.

I didn’t move and neither did she.

We just stood there in the glow of her shitty hallway light, me holding her and her staring up at me like she wasn’t sure if I was the devil or his next victim.

She had these big, amber eyes, they were wild and bright, and they looked almost golden in the dim light—like sunshine... Her curls were half covering her face, sticking to her cheek from my blood. Her skin had gone pale as chalk, and there was this tiny little vein on her neck, just under the jaw fluttering.

She looked so soft.

And I knew I was bleeding all over her floor, on her walls and I was definitely bleeding on her.

“Sorry about the mess,” I whispered, I didn’t even know if I meant the blood or the fact I brought hell to her doorstep, “Some really bad people wanna kill me,” I added, eyes barely holding hers, “I swear, I didn’t do anything wrong... this time.”

Her chest rose, and she blinked, tears clinging to her thick lashes.

My knees buckled.

Shit.

The adrenaline was burning off too fast now. The pain was catching up with me, my heartbeat was in my ears and my vision was tunnel shrinking fast.

I looked at her again. The last thing I remember seeing was those sun-soaked eyes, still staring, wide and filled with disbelief and fear.

I tried to smirk and tried to say something clever, "You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?" I barely got the words out or maybe, I didn't and they only echoed in my head because my body had other plans.

Everything tipped sideways.

And I collapsed, hard, right in her arms.

Lights out.

Curtain dropped.

Welcome to my fucked-up fairytale.

Chapter 2 - A badly coded NPC

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

There was blood on my socks.

Blood. On. My. Socks.

Blood. On. My. Hello. Kitty. Socks.

And not just a little but a lot. It was dripping on my hardwood floors, smearing on my wall, and now soaking through the hem of my favorite bunny pajama shorts.

One second I was heating up oat milk for my tea, and the next he burst through my front door like a horror movie villain and slapped a hand over my mouth before I could even scream.

His hand was warm and heavy and covered in blood. So much blood. I hate blood. I hate blood.

So, I just stood there.

Frozen.

Like a badly coded NPC in a video game.

I could feel my heart thudding all the way up my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brain went into full panic-flip mode. I mentally started to recite my vegan food pyramid.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

He looked at me again and smiled? How can he smile? At this time?! Like this?! When he is injured and in so much pain.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?” he asked and his voice was weirdly hot. It was like raspy and deep and kind of rough in a way that made my knees wobble. Oh god, he was probably only talking like that because he was beat up and half delirious.

Priorities, Maddie!

Then his knees buckled and he just collapsed.

Right into me.

Like a full-grown bleeding tree.

I squeaked... like, actually squeaked, because he was heavy. And hot, like, body temperature hot. I could feel it through my shirt. That can’t be good, right? That’s bad, right? Doesn’t heat mean infection or internal bleeding or—

Breathe. Breathe, Maddie. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like yoga. You took that one class with Steph, remember? Before she bailed and said the instructor was giving cult leader vibes? Yes. Good.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, nope, nope, that’s too much blood. I think I’m going to throw up.

I gingerly slid down to the floor, knees hitting hardwood, and he sort of folded with me, like a very large, injured, possibly criminal origami swan.

He smelled like gasoline and burnt metal and something darker, like violence if violence had a scent. His blood is hot. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud... or think.

Jason would totally know what to do, he’s a surgeon, and also my best friend, and thank the stars he lives right across the hall but he’s not here, because his shift at the hospital doesn’t end for like another hour.

“Okay, Mister... dying man,” I whispered, trying very hard not to sound like I’m crying even though I definitely am crying, “you can’t die here. Not on my floor. My landlord already hates me and this would just really push things over the edge.”

I fumbled for my phone but remembered that it was charging in the kitchen. Ten feet away. A lifetime. I glanced at the door, still chained and bolted, and then at him... this stranger with blood everywhere and bruises already blooming across his face and, oh, his lashes are really long.

Why am I noticing that right now?

I crawled toward the kitchen, whispering apologies with every creak of the floorboards. “I’m just going to get my phone,” I mumbled over my shoulder, in case he woke up mid-coma and gets the wrong idea, “and maybe a towel. Or twelve.”

My knees were shaking. I slipped once on the bloody wood and let out a weird little scream, it was like half mouse, half dying balloon. When I finally reached the counter and grabbed my phone, my hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I should call 911.

Right?

No. Big fat no. Because the moment I say “a man broke in and passed out from blood loss,” I become an accessory to whatever criminal nonsense this is. And I can't get into trouble, I can't, I'm not made for trouble. I’m not going down as the girl who helped hide a wanted felon. Or a hitman. Nope.

But I can’t just leave him here.

He said, “Please.”

He asked me not to scream, and he said please. Blood, tattoos, bruises and split skin, yes, but also a crease between his brows. A quiver in his fingers. A human. A hurting one.

And I knew that feeling. Of hurt. Of fear. Of being chased by monsters.

I wiped my palms on my thighs, which did nothing because my pajama shorts were bloody too. I tiptoed back into the room, and shared at his chest, he was breathing.

“Okay,” I said to the universe, to God, to the hot dying man on my floor, “okay, Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro, you got a B+ in first aid. You can do this.”

I scrambled to grab the first aid kit from the closet because, yes, I do keep it fully stocked, thank you very much. Some girls collect shoes. I collect trauma gauze. You never know when your rescue possum might slice a toe.

But halfway back across the room, arms full of peroxide and gauze and that one antibiotic cream that smells like sour lemons, he shifted. Twitched, really and then groaned.

“...No hospitals...” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice was so pain filled, “Please... no hospitals... they’ll find us... kill us...”

I froze.

The peroxide slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a thunk.

Kill us?

I blinked.

Kill us?

And then I panicked.

Why us?

I think he means, they might kill him, not me, right? Right?!

My chest squeezed and my hands went cold. My lungs forgot how to breathe properly, the way they do when I think about car crashes or open flames or my father’s face when he came home from fights that I wasn’t supposed to ask about.

He was still mumbling under his breath. I inched back until my shoulders hit the kitchen counter, arms hugging the first aid kit to my chest.

“They,” I whispered, “Who’s they? What is this? Why are men chasing you? Why did you have to pick my apartment? I live alone. I have a cat. His name is Flan. He hides in the toaster box when strangers knock. He can’t handle this either!”

I took a breath, gathered all the courage I could and crawled toward him again. Slower this time, like I would with a wounded dog.

“No hospitals,” I whispered, repeating his words like a promise. “Okay. Fine. No hospitals. But I am helping you. That’s non-negotiable.”

I peeled his shirt off as gently as I could. It was soaked in blood. His skin underneath was hot to the touch, too hot. Infection was coming, I could feel it. And I might hate violence, and I might be scared out of my flipping mind, but I know what sepsis looks like. And this man wasn’t dying in my apartment, not on my watch, not if I could stop it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair back, and got to work.

“You’re lucky, mister, that I know how to thread a needle. My mom used to say every woman should know how to cook, sew, and stitch. I only ever got good at one of those, and it wasn’t sewing. Sorry in advance if this hurts. Deep breaths, Maddie, deep breaths... we can panic later.”

His whole chest was filled with cuts, and smudged blood. A bullet wound in his shoulder, swollen and ugly. I could see where it grazed the flesh, but not deep enough to be fatal. Still, infection, blood loss, shock... all real risks.

I chewed my lip. “Mama would tell me to pour sugar on it,” I said, half to myself, half to him, “but I think you need saline and prayers more than kitchen remedies right now.”

I cleaned, stitched, bandaged. My hands shook but I did it. Clean, cut, compress. Just like Papa's old accident, except infinitely worse.

I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d seen wounded animals look like this. Cornered, bleeding, terrified. And he was human, yes but there was something wild in his face even when he was unconscious. Like a wolf, maybe. Something that didn’t belong in the middle of my tiny Chicago apartment surrounded by my plants and tea towels and my faint scent of lavender and lemongrass.

“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered, “or what you’re running from... but I hope... I hope you make it.”

I sat back on my heels. The towels were soaked red. The bandages were holding. He hadn’t stirred.

Somehow, against all logic, all panic, all everything, I’d managed to keep him alive until Jason gets here.

Just hold on, stranger. Just hang in there for a little longer. Jason will know what to do. He has fancy tools and calm hands and degrees and stuff. I’m just a girl with old sewing needles, way too many herbal teas, and exactly zero experience saving strangers from... whatever this is.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was going wild. I could feel it thudding everywhere, in my throat, in my fingertips, in my toes.

“You’re okay,” I whispered to myself, “You’re okay. He’s okay. Jason will be home soon. And I didn’t faint. That’s already a win.”

I gave a nervous, watery laugh.

Then I leaned down, gently, just to listen closer to his breathing. It was faint but it was still there.

Chapter 3 - Signs someone is about to die in your bed

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Jason. Jason should be home by now.

I tore off the gloves, wiped my hands on a towel that already looked like a crime scene, and sprinted out the door in socks, no coat, no keys, just nerves and adrenaline.

I banged on Jason's door, looking around to see if the bad people were still here, looking to kill him and now... me.

“Jason!” I pounded on his door again, “Jason, please be home, please be home, please—”

The lock clicked.

His tired, just-got-off-a-26-hour-shift face peeked out, “Maddie? What—”

“Oh thank God, you’re here.” I barreled into his apartment without permission and turned around to grab his arm. “You have to come with me. Now. Please. It’s an emergency. A man. Bleeding. A lot of bleeding. My floor is ruined. His lung might be too. Maybe even his spleen. Can spleens bleed? I think they can.”

He blinked, “Wait, what? What man? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you—?”

“No, no, not me, I’m fine! I mean, I’m not fine, I think I’ve been in shock for the past hour, but I’m not the one dying on my rug, okay?” I tugged harder. “He broke in and locked the door. He was already bleeding and then he just collapsed. I patched him up but I don’t know what I’m doing! Well, I do know some things, because of Mamãe and Papai but this is—this is way above me.”

Jason had already grabbed his emergency bag because he’s the kind of person who has an emergency bag and was slipping on shoes.

“You let a bleeding man stay in your apartment?” he asked, jogging beside me as we stepped out of his apartment and ran to mine.

“He passed out on my floor, Jason! What was I supposed to do? Say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Mysterious Blood Loss Man, please die elsewhere’? I’m vegan. I can’t even kill a mosquito on purpose!”

We reached my door and I flung it open, “Please just fix him, okay? He’s still breathing. And I think I traumatized him trying to clean the wound because—”

He was dead?

I froze.

Jason stopped behind me.

The man still lay just where I left him. My makeshift bandages were still wrapped. There was a faint rise and fall of his chest. He was alive.

I let out a breath and whispered, “See? I told you.”

Jason blinked at the blood everywhere. “Jesus Christ, Maddie.”

I bit my lip, voice wobbling as I knelt back beside the stranger. “Can you help him? Please, Jason. Just… don’t ask questions right now. Just help him.”

Jason didn’t ask another word. He was already snapping on gloves. The moment he peeled back my last bandage, a fresh rush of red bubbled up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, he’s still bleeding. I thought I tied it right, I swear I tied it right. I mean, I double-knotted it like shoelaces and everything, does blood not listen to knots?”

Jason grunted, “You did okay. You slowed it. But the cut’s deep. He’s lucky he didn’t nick the lung.”

“I knew it looked lung-ish!” I clutched the hem of my bloodied pajama shirt, “Do lungs grow back? I mean, I know liver does but I don’t think—oh God. He’s gonna die and it’s gonna be my fault and he didn’t even ask to be here and what if—”

“Maddie.” Jason looked up for half a second, “Inhale. Exhale. Sit down or you’re going to faint on me.”

I obeyed so fast I landed on the floor with a thump. My knees hit the rug and I curled them to my chest like a human stress ball, “I didn’t even ask his name. He could be a Bob. Or a Kevin. He doesn’t look like a Kevin, though. He looks more like... I don't know, someone handsome. With cheekbones.”

Jason didn’t respond. He was focused on stitching. The kind of stitching I couldn’t do. Not on someone’s chest.

My heart twisted again when I saw the way the man’s face flinched in his sleep. Aw, he was in pain.

I didn’t know why, but something in me whispered he was a good guy.

Jason looked up at me, “Maddie. Is this guy in trouble?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “He just showed up in my apartment! Bleeding! Dying! And now he’s saying things that sound like he has enemies who—who kill people who go to the hospital, and oh my God, I knew this was going to be one of those days where I should’ve stayed in bed!”

Jason didn’t say anything for a full three seconds. His eyes flicked from the half-conscious man on the rug to me and back again.

“I know, I know what you’re gonna say,” I rushed out, waving my arms around, “Call the police, Maddie. Call an ambulance, Maddie. But no! Because—because he said no hospitals and I know it was mumbly and delirious but it was also really intense and you should’ve seen his face. He was serious and scary. Like, the kind of scary you don’t fake unless you’re a really good actor.”

Jason sighed. “Maddie…”

“No, listen!” I clutched his arm, “What if—what if he’s not a bad guy? What if he’s one of the good guys? Like—like a spy. Or—or a secret agent. Or someone running from, I don’t know, dangerous people with helicopters. You know I have an overactive imagination, but what if it’s right this time?”

“He had a bullet in him, Maddie.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean he shot anyone!” I countered, “That proves that he was the one being chased. Maybe he saved someone. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Jason rubbed his face.

“Okay. So. I have a plan.” I clapped once. “We move him to the bed. I’ll make chamomile compresses. You already did the stitching, you’re amazing. I’ll give him some painkillers—nothing super strong, just the kind I use when I drop kettlebells on my toes. You can handle the prescriptions for infection and whatever else. And I’ll watch him! No one will know. No cops. No questions. Just quiet, peaceful, low-crime-zone healing.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re going to drag a bullet-ridden stranger into your bed and pretend everything’s normal.”

“Obviously. New sheets. Clean pillowcases. He needs it more than me right now, Jay.”

Jason shook his head in disbelief but stood, “You are crazy, Maddie.”

“Crazy and helpful,” I chirped, already flinging open the linen closet for towels. “Now help me carry him.”

Between the two of us, we managed to lift the man onto the bed. He was heavy because he had strong, solid, muscle-everywhere. He groaned once when Jason shifted his shoulder, and I immediately apologized like I’d stepped on his foot.

“Sorry! Sorry! You’re doing great. So brave. So unconscious. We love that for you.”

We got him on the bed, propped up his torso with a pillow, and Jason adjusted the bandages again.

“I’ll give him some acetaminophen,” I said. “And maybe some valerian root, because that’s good for calming nerves and I’m pretty sure he has some.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

“Oh, I already had two lavender capsules,” I said, “And some Rescue Remedy while I was waiting for you to come home. I might also start crying in the next ten minutes, but I’m emotionally versatile.”

When Jason was done, he stood and started packing up, “I’m trusting you, Maddie.”

“You can always trust me. I babysit kittens.”

“Call me if anything goes sideways, alright?”

“Will do!” I chirped, way too peppy for someone standing in blood-soaked socks.

Jason gave me one last warning look, before stepping out, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” I muttered to the door after it clicked shut behind him. “I already let a bleeding, beautiful man with murder-eyes and a bullet hole into my living room. I’m doomed. I’m so doomed.”

I turned around slowly, taking it all in: blood smeared across the floor, the couch, me. My favorite yellow throw pillow was soaked. The coffee table looked like the surgeon's table.

My apartment looked like I sacrificed a goat in the name of Satan.

And then I got to work because if I didn’t, I was pretty sure I’d just sit down and cry.

I tossed anything soaked in his blood straight into garbage bags, trying not to think about how incredibly suspicious it all looked. Like, if anyone decided to peek inside, I'd be screwed.

Once the floors were scrubbed, the couch wiped down, and the throw pillows mourned and replaced, I stumbled to the bathroom. I peeled off my ruined clothes, dumped them straight into a plastic bag, and stepped into the shower.

The water hit me and for a second, I just stood there, forehead against the tile. I watched his blood swirl down the drain off my body.

When I was clean, I pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I walked back to my bedroom.

I peeked at the stranger, his long lashes, his chest rising and falling. I sat on the floor beside the bed and tucked the covers up around him.

“No hospitals,” I whispered. “No cops. No questions.”

Then because I couldn't help myself, I added, “But if you are an assassin or something, please don’t kill me when you wake up. I make really good pancakes. Vegan. Banana oat. I'll make them for you.”

I couldn’t sleep.

Of course I couldn’t sleep. There was a strange, injured, unconscious, bleeding man in my bed.

Well, not bleeding now, exactly. More like... healing. His breathing was more even. Less rattly. He hadn’t made a sound in the past hour, which was either a really good thing or a really, really bad one, but I decided not to spiral about that.

I’d already used up my spiral quota when I googled “signs someone is about to die in your bed” and then had to delete my search history just in case the FBI thought I was planning something.

Which I wasn’t, obviously.

Anyway.

I sat in my armchair with my knees pulled up to my chest, a mug of chamomile tea clutched in my hands, and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

I couldn’t help but whisper to him now and then. It was silly, I know. He couldn’t hear me but I had a habit of talking too much.

“I don’t like the idea of someone dying alone. Especially not on a cold night. Especially not when I could do something, even if it’s just... wrapping towels around them and staying by their side.”

I set the mug down and stood slowly, creeping toward him. The bandages were still secure, there was no new blood. His lips weren’t as pale anymore, and his forehead wasn’t as clammy as before. I pressed the back of my hand gently to his cheek, it was warm. Not feverish, just warm.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure. “You’re in a safe place. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

I stood there for a while, watching him breathe.

I bit my lip, then reached over and gently adjusted the blanket on his chest and sat down on the floor beside the bed.

“If you wake up and try to kill me, I hope you at least feel a little bad about it,” I whispered.

I was only going to rest my eyes. Just for a second.

I swear, I really did mean to stay awake but there I was, slouched sideways by my bed, head lolling dangerously close to my shoulder, still wrapped up in my favorite yellow throw blanket, the one with the tiny embroidered suns.

The last thing I remember was trying to tell him a story about how my neighbor’s cat broke into my pantry and ate all my cereal, and how I cried for three days because it was the good kind with the cinnamon clusters and I didn't have any money to buy new ones but halfway through explaining, my head dipped forward.

My cheek landed on the mattress near his arm.

I was too tired to move.

The sheets still smelled faintly of antiseptic and chamomile. The soft hush of his breathing rose and fell beside me. I couldn’t even open my eyes again. I think I mumbled something—I don’t know what. Maybe “don’t die.” Maybe “I put your blood-stained shirt in with my good towels.”

Either way, I was out cold in seconds.

Curled up beside a man I should probably be terrified of.

Wrapped in yellow cotton sunshine.

Chapter 4 - Not-so-dead houseguest.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The world came in flashes, everything was blurred and sounds that stretched too long or cut too short.

My mouth wouldn’t work, my fucking body wouldn’t move. My tongue was heavy like I’d been gagged, drugged, drowned. I tried to speak but nothing came out only a cracked exhale.

Where the fuck am I?

A ceiling that wasn't mine. It was stained with a water mark near the corner. There was a plant hanging from a hook. What the fuck kind of place was this? It wasn't a hospital because it was too quiet.

But someone drugged me, they fucking drugged me like hell.

There was pain... burning, dragging, twisting pain in my gut and shoulder. Even under the blanket of drugs, it pulsed like a second heartbeat.

They didn’t finish the job.

Cowards.

I could still feel them. The faces covered with masks, the heat of the bullets and the cold metal pressed to my ribs before I snapped his wrist. The taste of blood.

The blur of the hallway walls as I ran, before it all slipped.

And now this.

There was movement.

It was too soft to be a threat.

Bare feet, the brush of fabric. Then there was a presence, and it was close. I blinked through the burn in my eyes as a shadow shifted beside me.

Hair.

Her.

That girl.

That girl with the shaking body and those big sun-like eyes like she’d never seen blood before.

There was a cloth, it was cool on my face. It smelled clean, and gentle. She touched me again but it was barely a graze.

Fingertips on my forehead.

I should’ve moved my head away but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even raise my arm. I wasn’t in my skin, I was hovering over it, watching her cradle what was left of me like I was glass.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Safe,” she whispered.

No one’s safe. Not me. Not her.

Especially not her.

She was in over her head. I saw it in her eyes. The moment I collapsed in her hallway. She was terrified. And now she’s... here. In reach. So close.

Was she fucking stupid?

The pain surged and my jaw clenched involuntarily. It felt like my guts were being chewed from the inside.

I tried to speak but I couldn't even move my tongue let alone my lips.

Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

I’m going to kill them.

Whoever set that up and whoever pulled that trigger and whoever gave me drugs, every single one of them is going to bleed for this.

I just need to get up.

I just need to move.

Just—

“Shhh,” she said.

The cloth again. A stroke over my temple. I wanted to swat her hand away, grab her wrist, bark at her to stop touching me like I was some stray in her bathtub but my fucking fingers wouldn’t respond.

She was saying something else. I caught pieces of it, something about fever, pain meds, not out of the woods and I needed to rest.

Fucking poetic.

She didn’t sound scared now, not exactly, nervous, yeah, soft, yeah, but not scared.

The bed dipped and she moved. I felt the shift, she was closer now, breathing slowly. She whispered something about being nearby if I woke up scared.

I don’t get scared.

I just get even.

There was a cat somewhere. I heard it. Purring and the girl talked to it. She called it Flan.

The fuck kind of name is Flan?

My mind was slipping again. Heat crawled up my neck. The sweat soaked through the gauze at my side. My ribs ached. I wanted to sit up and I wanted to fight someone.

Instead, I turned my head, it was barely an inch and saw her.

She was curled on the floor, and there was a bright yellow blanket over her legs. Her hair spilled down, hiding part of her face. Her hand rested on the side of the bed... near mine.

Fuck, I was fucking broken everywhere, half-dead, and this girl, this stupid girl was guarding me with a fucking cat.

If they come for me here, they’ll kill her too.

I don’t know why that thought lodged in my throat.

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

I’m not saying I have bad luck, but the moment I walked into the pharmacy, a ceiling tile above me coughed out a suspicious puff of dust and something white and powdery landed in my hair. And not in a pretty, snowflake-slow-falling kind of way. No. It was aggressive, like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I stood there in the automatic doors’ path, blinking up at the ceiling.

A little old man shuffled past me with his newspaper and said, “You’ve got dandruff, lady.”

Brilliant start.

I shook myself off and marched on to aisle three to get the supplies.

“Right,” I muttered to myself, scanning the shelves, “I need... um. Gauze. Bandages. Alcohol. Antibiotic cream. Ointment. Stuff for gunshot wounds, oh God, do they even make gunshot wound kits?”

The woman stocking vitamins gave me a startled look, like I’d just admitted to burying bodies in my garden. I gave her a thumbs up. She did not return it.

I reached for the antiseptic spray, then froze.

Wallet. Money. Crap.

I dug through my bag and counted out my savings. I’d been quietly stashing money away, one coin at a time, for my next and last semester. But now I was about to blow half of it on gauze and antibiotic cream for a bleeding stranger.

I took a deep breath, counted the bills and when I reached the checkout, the clerk looked at me, “Someone hurt?” he asked.

“Oh! No! Yes. I mean, not me. Well, kind of, emotionally, always but no. It’s for... well. A friend. Acquaintance. A wounded man. He has very soulful eyes and didn’t murder me, so that’s already five stars in my book.”

The clerk blinked at me. I blinked back.

The man said nothing, just bagged my items slowly. I handed over half my sad little savings and tried not to wince.

Outside, the sky was a weird mix of lavender and polluted orange. It was that awkward time of day when streetlights flickered on too early and pigeons got confused. I hugged the bag to my chest and sighed.

“You’re doing the right thing,” I told myself. “You’re being a good person. You’re not enabling a fugitive. You’re helping someone who needs help.”

A seagull landed in front of me, eyed my plastic bag, and shrieked.

“Don’t judge me, Kevin,” I snapped. (I always call the rude birds Kevin. It helps.)

On the way home, I made a little detour. I stopped by Carlos’s place, my boyfriend and the love of my life.

I rang the bell and waited, the door flew open a moment later. Carlos stood there in a wrinkled T-shirt and messy hair, blinking at me like I was a ghost.

“Hi!” I chirped, “I was just, um, in the area and I thought, Maddie, your boyfriend hasn’t seen your face in four whole days and that’s basically a crime, so here I am!”

He stared at me, eyes wide like I’d grown another head. He didn’t even open the door fully to invite me in, he just slipped outside and shut it behind him.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it was suddenly itchy, “What are you doing here?”

I smiled brightly, “I brought snacks! And... oh, antiseptic spray. Long story. You won’t believe the night I’ve had. There was this man—”

he breathed out a sigh that made me stop, woah, was I bothering him?

“You look tired,” I said quickly, “Like, extra tired. You know what you need right now? A walk and a double shot espresso straight to the bloodstream. Anyway—”

“Maddie,” he cut in, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, “I just woke up and I need to be at work in an hour.”

I froze, brain doing mental backflips, “Oh my god. Right. Right. You’re going to work. Go! Shower, coffee, save lives, all that good stuff.”

He gave me a look.

I smiled, “Hero mode activated. I’ll just, um, leave you alone now. Let you... EMT yourself. That’s not a verb but I’m gonna go.”

He gave me a quick smile, “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Sure!” I chirped. “Later is good. I’ve got… bandages to apply.”

I backed away, heart doing something really dramatic in my chest but I smiled anyway. He’d been working nonstop lately, saving lives, running on fumes, barely sleeping. I should be supportive, not clingy.

But... why does it feel like he’s about to break up with me?

Is it just me? Am I overthinking? Or did I ruin everything by being too much? Too available? Too... myself?

I bit the inside of my cheek, heart doing this weird slow-sinking thing in my chest.

I didn’t mean to mess it up. I just really liked him and maybe I got too excited.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Maybe he’s just tired. Long shift. Stress. Sirens and stretchers and all that EMT things.

I’m probably just overthinking it... right?

It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.

I picked at a thread on my sleeve, trying to laugh it off in my head, but it caught in my throat like a splinter as I walked back to my place.

𓎢𓎠𖦁‎𓎠𓎡

I dumped everything from the pharmacy onto the kitchen counter, gauze, antiseptic, pain meds, way more than I could afford and peeked into the bedroom.

He was still out cold, just like Jason said he would be. His breathing was steady, bandages were holding and he was still alive. Thank God.

My fingers were shaking as I picked up my phone.

I stared at my dad’s name for a solid minute before pressing call. The ring buzzed in my ear once and my lungs forgot how to work until it picked up.

“Alô?” his voice sounded uncertain.

My throat clenched, “Oi… It’s me,” I said softly, skipping my name.

Then there was silence.

“I don't know you, you have the wrong number,” he said.

My heart drowned in my stomach.

I scrambled to keep him on the line, “Wait—wait, please,” I whispered fast, curling into myself on the kitchen floor, my arm wrapping around my ribs, “Sorry, senhor, I just, are you okay? Is your family okay?”

I heard him sigh.

“I don’t know who you are. If this is another prank, chega. Enough. This isn't funny anymore, understand?”

His accent got thicker when he was scared, that’s how I knew.

I bit down on my lip to keep it from wobbling, blinking hard to push the tears back, “Desculpa, senhor. Sorry,” I said quickly, lowering my voice, playing along, “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.” I sniffled and wiped my face even though it wouldn’t help.

“Don’t call again.”

I heard what he didn’t say, they’re still watching. Still listening.

“Wait—I—”

Click.

Just like that, the call ended.

But I got what I needed, they were alive. They were still hiding. And Appa, he was still protecting me the only way he could.

By pretending I was already gone.

Sighing, I refilled the first-aid kit with shaky hands, gauze, antiseptic, everything in its place, even if nothing in my life felt remotely in place right now.

Then I tiptoed back into the bedroom to check on my not-so-dead houseguest.

Chapter 5 - Strict no-dying policy here.

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

He was still out cold, but his body had started twitching, twisting under the blanket like he was trapped in some kind of nightmare.

I knelt beside the mattress, “Hey... shh, it’s okay,” I murmured, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. I reached out without thinking and brushed the sweat-drenched hair off his forehead. It was sticking to his skin. Burning hot.

Too hot.

I froze. Then scrambled for the glass of water on the nightstand, dipped the edge of my sleeve into it, and gently dabbed at his temples.

“You’re burning up,” I whispered to him, “Oh no, no no no... this is bad. This is very, very not-good.”

His lips parted.

“Stronzo figlio di puttana… ti scavo la gola a mani nude… bastardo maledetto…” he slurred.

I froze.

He kept going, breath ragged, “Ti faccio ingoiare i denti, uno per uno… ti spezzo il collo e ci ballo sopra…”

I blinked, heart aching at the pain in his voice. He sounded so desperate. So broken. I had no idea what he was saying, it wasn’t Spanish, and I barely knew any Italian beyond ciao and grazie but it had to mean something awful had happened to him.

Maybe, he was asking for help.

“Bastardi… ve lo giuro… vi scuoio vivi…”

I brushed the back of his hand with my thumb, trying to soothe him. “Shhh… whatever you’re saying, it’s okay now,” I whispered, “But you need help. Real help. And I know you said no hospitals, but... I can’t just sit here and watch you melt into the sheets. That’s not a plan. That’s a medical emergency.”

I looked down at his flushed face, fever burning through him like wildfire, and sighed, “You’re not gonna die in my apartment, okay? I draw the line at that. Strict no-dying policy here.”

Jason would’ve known what to do, but he wasn’t here. My mind raced, Carlos. St. Margaret’s Health Center. Quiet, low-profile, underfunded. Carlos, my EMT boyfriend, wouldn’t ask questions. He wouldn’t betray me. I turned back to the man, brushing his hair again.

“I’ll be right back, alright? Mister Bloody Man,” I whispered, “Just... hang in there.”

I sprinted barefoot across the cold apartment floor, grabbed my phone off the couch, and dialled in Carlos’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the third ring, “What did I say about calling when I’m on shift?” he snapped.

“I need an ambulance,” I gasped. “There’s this man, he’s really hurt, Carlos, he’s burning up and I tried, I swear I did everything, but he’s not getting better! Please, just come.”

There was a pause, and then static. Then his voice, “A man?”

My throat tightened. “I was going to tell you earlier but... you listen to me.”

“You’ve had some stranger in your apartment and you didn’t think that was important enough to lead with?”

“He was bleeding out on my floor, Carlos! I couldn’t just leave him!”

“Fuck, Maddie.”

“Please don’t be mad—”

He let out a harsh sigh, “Send me your address so it gets logged in the system. I’ll come. But we’re talking about this later.”

Relief flooded my chest, “Okay. Thank you.”

I hung up, heart pounding, and ran back to the bedroom.

“Help’s coming,” I whispered, crouching beside the man again. His skin was burning. I touched his wrist lightly, afraid even that would hurt him, “Just hold on a little longer.”

Ten minutes later, tires screeched outside. I bolted for the door, yanking it open just as Carlos stormed up the stairs, EMT jacket half-zipped, jaw tight.

“Maddie,” his eyes swept over me like I was something fragile, aw, he was worried for me. He pulled me into a one-armed hug, too hard, “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I breathed, “It’s him. He’s in bad shape. I tried to clean the wound and—”

Carlos didn’t let me finish. He grabbed my face and kissed me hard. I kissed him back, clumsily, more out of reflex than anything else, I was too anxious, too tense, my lips not catching up with my brain.

Still, I smiled without meaning to because if he kissed me, he wasn’t mad mad.

“Where the hell is he?” he asked.

“Bedroom. But Carlos, wait, he said no hospitals. He’s scared. He thinks someone’s after him and—”

Carlos was already pulling gloves from his pocket, “We’ll stabilize him. That’s it. Don’t get it twisted, Maddie. But you shouldn't have dragged a sketchy-ass guy home like a stray animal.”

“He’s not dangerous,” I whispered. “He was scared.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “So you thought, ‘Hey, I’ll just let him crash here’? That’s normal behavior now?”

“I didn’t know what else to do...”

“You call me. That’s what you do,” his voice dropped lower, “I bend over backwards helping you, and this is what you do? Out yourself in danger? Risking your life for some guy you don’t even know?”

I deflated, “I didn’t want to make you mad.”

“You should’ve wanted to make me mad. Maybe then you’d actually think for once.”

He pushed past me and entered the bedroom. I followed, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

He crouched beside the man, checked his pulse and temp, and muttered, “Shit. We don’t have time.”

Carlos stood fast. “Grab that bag. We’re loading him now.”

“Wait, baby, what if he wakes up in a hospital and panics? He trusted me.”

“Yeah? And I don’t get that trust?” he snapped his fingers, “Get the bag, Maddie. I’m not playing.”

I scrambled to obey.

We got the stranger onto the stretcher. Carlos moved fast, like he wasn’t pissed two seconds ago. He climbed into the rig and held out his hand.

I hesitated.

“You coming or not?” he said flatly.

My heart clenched and I climbed in.

The doors slammed shut behind me and the siren lit up the night. The man’s face was soaked in fever sweat. I reached for his hand, curling my fingers around his when Carlos wasn't looking.

“I’m still here,” I whispered.

And just like that, I knew, there went my last shred of savings.

I sat in one of the orange plastic chairs at St. Margaret’s, fingers clenched so tightly around each other they’d gone pale.

When the double doors opened, I shot to my feet, nearly toppling the chair. Carlos walked out first, hair a mess, EMT jacket hanging open over sweat and blood-stained scrubs. Behind him was Dr. Lane, someone I recognized from a community vet drive.

“We stabilized him,” Dr. Lane said. “But it’s serious. The stab wound nicked his small intestine. You did the right thing, but it’s the kind of injury that can be deceptive. He’ll need antibiotics, rest, and monitoring.”

I swallowed hard. “Is it... like sepsis?”

“We caught it early, but infection’s still a risk. He’ll be in pain, sore and weak. Any strain could cause internal bleeding.”

I nodded, jaw tight.

“There’s more,” he added. “He has a clean gunshot through the shoulder, plus two grazes, one on the ribs, one on his arm. Nothing fatal, but everything combined? He’s not out of the woods.”

“He must’ve been in so much pain...”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Lane said. “Shock, fever, and weakness are expected. We’ve started IV fluids and pain meds, he’ll sleep most of the time, which is good. His body needs it.”

Carlos finally spoke. “We can’t keep him here, Maddie. You said no hospitals. I vouched for you, we’ll keep it off the books but he still needs care.”

“I’ll take care of him,” I said quickly

I’ve got soup, blankets, a humidifier, even a spare toothbrush.

Dr. Lane smiled faintly. “More important is keeping him clean, dry, still. Watch his fever. Change his bandages. And yes, comfort matters too. We’ve started him on IV antibiotics and mild sedation, not enough to knock him out fully, but enough to keep him calm and limit movement. Too much strain could reopen internal bleeding, so keeping him semi-sedated for the next few days is critical.”

Carlos turned to me. “I’ll bring supplies and check in after shifts. But Maddie, this guy? He didn’t get those wounds by accident.”

“He’s not dangerous,” I whispered. “He was scared.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair and let out a long, sharp breath, the kind that meant he was upset about something.

“You can take him,” Dr. Lane said. “But if anything changes, fever spikes, vomiting, call me right away.”

“I will. I promise.”

Carlos stayed silent until we were loading the stranger into the van. Even unconscious, he twitched and shifted, like his body didn’t know how to stop fighting.

Back at my apartment, I had already tucked a clean set of sheets on the bed and fluffed the pillows. Carlos and I eased the man down carefully.

“Watch his left side,” I murmured, reaching out instinctively.

Carlos grunted, adjusting the pillows with a little too much force, “Keep him tilted. Better for his breathing, takes pressure off the wound. You'd know I know this stuff better than you, you don't have to teach me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded, “Right. I—I was just double-checking.”

I turned to grab the eucalyptus oil, holding it up, “Think this’ll help? The smell might calm him down, even if it’s not medicinal, it will kind of tricks his brain, you know?”

Carlos scoffed, wiping his hands on his jacket, “It’s not a cold, Maddie. God, sometimes you really think essential oils are magic.”

I flushed, “I didn’t mean, I just want him to feel safe.”

He looked at me, “That’s your problem. You want everyone to feel safe. You forget this isn’t a fairy tale.”

I gave a small, nervous laugh, “That’s why you love me though, right?”

Carlos didn’t answer at first. Then he stepped in close, grabbed my face a little too firmly, and kissed me, hard. He does that sometimes, when he is mad but he still loves me.

He pulled back just enough to mutter, “He can stay tonight. One night, Maddie. That’s it. I don’t want some bleeding stranger in your apartment any longer than that. You get me?”

I nodded quickly. “Of course. Just... until he’s stable.”

He stared at me, “I really don’t like this. You helping some guy you don’t know. You’re too trusting. Someone’s gonna use that one day and I won’t be there to clean up the mess.”

“I’ll call if anything changes. I promise.”

He stepped back, “You’d better.”

Then he left and the door clicked shut behind him.

The apartment fell into silence.

Just me and the stranger now.

I crouched beside the bed, brushing a damp cloth across his brow, avoiding the stitch there. His face was pale and sweat-slicked, lips dry and bruised. The bandages someone at the clinic had wrapped peeked out from under his borrowed shirt. His arm was still strapped tight to his side.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered, smoothing a lock of dark hair from his forehead, “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Flan gave us a disapproving blink from the windowsill.

He stirred slightly, the tiniest groan slipping from between his lips.

“Shhh,” I murmured, dipping the cloth into cold water again, “You’re burning up, but that’s okay. You’ll get better. I’ll help.”

His lips moved again, something close to speech but lost in fevered haze.

I sat down on the floor with a pillow, glancing over at Flan. “It’s just us, buddy. You and me. If he wakes up scared, I want him to see that someone is here. Every person deserves that.”

I leaned my head against the couch, eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

He was a stranger.

But not to pain.

That, I recognized.

And maybe that’s what scared me most.

Chapter 6 - Devil into her home.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

There’s a spoon in my mouth.

A fucking spoon.

Warm, salty liquid slid down my throat before I could fight it, and by the time my brain caught up, she was already loading up the next hit like I was some half-dead pigeon she scooped off the street.

She made a soft sound, she sounded pleased, like feeding me soup was the highlight of her goddamn week.

Vincenzo, I needed my brother, Vincenzo.

“You’re awake again!” she chirped, and then made a face, “Well, Sort of. Ish. That’s okay. You don’t have to be all the way awake. I’ve got soup.”

What the fuck is happening?

My eyes dragged open, everything was bright, like the inside of a greenhouse had swallowed me whole. There were plants on every surface, hanging from the ceiling, climbing shelves.

And her.

She looked like springtime.

She was wearing an oversized pink T-shirt, hair in a lazy braid. No makeup, no shoes, just this barefoot, wide-eyed girl with the voice of a cartoon character.

God help me.

“Flan didn’t like the smell,” she said conversationally as she dipped the spoon again, “But she never does. She’s so dramatic. You’d think I tried to poison her with lentils or something.”

Another spoonful. She held it up to my lips like she was feeding a baby bird.

I wanted to curse, I wanted to tell her to get me a fucking cell phone so I can call my fucking brother and get the fuck out of here and off the drugs she had been feeding me but I was floating. My limbs weighed a thousand pounds and my head was made of smoke.

Wait, was she some psycho?

“You’re doing so good,” she cooked like she was talking to a baby. “I mean, your eyes are open now and your breathing’s steadier. Yesterday you were groaning and twitching, which the doctors said is a good sign.”

Soup again. I didn’t even taste it, it was something vaguely herbal, warm and had too much oregano.

She pushed a stool closer to the bed and sat down, still holding the bowl.

I watched her from the corner of my eye because I couldn’t do much else. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move without feeling like my stitches were going to tear wide open and spill my guts across her nice little bedspread.

“My cat uses a walker,” she said brightly, like that was normal. “It’s this little custom thing I found on Etsy. She’s got wheels on her back legs now. Zooms around like a little sausage on rollerblades.”

I blinked slowly.

What.

“She was abused. Her previous owner broke her spine and left her in a dumpster. Can you believe that?” her face twisted with anger, like the cruelty still hurt her to remember. “She was barely alive when I found her. All matted and shaking and full of fleas but we fixed her up. Didn’t we, Flan?”

Somewhere in the room, the cat meowed. A weak, croaky little sound.

Jesus Christ.

“She has anxiety,” Maddie added, completely serious. “But so do I, so we understand each other. Sometimes we both hide under the couch when there’s thunder.”

I would’ve laughed if I could. Instead, a strange noise came out of me, some half-breath, half-choke that made her freeze.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did you just make a sound?”

She leaned forward, all excitement and hope and way-too-close. Her face was inches from mine, eyes bright, lips parted.

Fuck.

Even in my barely living, drug-fogged state, I noticed her lips.

Full. Pink. A little chapped. Probably tasted like soup and some organic lip balm called ‘Coconut Cloud’ or ‘Peaceful Bee’ or some shit.

She smelled like rosemary and laundry.

She was still talking, “You must be so uncomfortable. Do you want water? Blink twice for yes. Or... no, wait. That’s for Morse code. Do you even know Morse code?”

God help me, I couldn’t look away.

“Anyway,” she went on, oblivious, “I named her Flan because I thought she’d be sweet and wobbly. Turns out she’s a tyrant. Hates everyone except me. She clawed my boyfriend so hard he needed stitches.”

Boyfriend?

Where the fuck is the boyfriend? Maybe, he'd be of some help.

Soup again. She didn’t even wait for permission. Just nudged it at my lips with a cheerful, “Open up, you handsome menace.”

I’d kill a man for calling me that.

But from her lips, it felt less like mockery and more like a nickname you give a raccoon who keeps breaking into your kitchen.

Menace.

Fuck.

She stirred the soup again, blowing on the spoon, and watching me like she was waiting for a sign that I’d snap, spit, bite or do anything.

But I just laid there. Helpless. Drugged out of my fucking skull.

And all I could think was:

If anyone finds out about this, I’ll have to kill them.

And maybe myself.

She smiled again, so sweet, so proud of herself.

“I knew you were a fighter.”

Lady, you have no idea.

How can someone with eyes that soft have no fucking survival instinct?

She didn’t know me, she didn’t know what I’d done. What I’d do the second I could stand again. She didn't know my name. She didn’t hear the way people said “Capone” like it was a death sentence.

All she saw was a broken man in her bed.

Who was torn open and she stitched him shut.

Bruised, bleeding, breathing.

A stranger.

And she decided to save me.

Spoon. Smile. Soup. Sunshine.

I could’ve killed her.

And yet...

She brushed a wild strand of hair behind her ear and scooped another spoonful, humming under her breath, some light, stupid melody I couldn’t place.

“There we go,” she murmured, nudging the spoon toward me again. “Almost done. And you didn’t bite me once. That’s progress.”

I opened my mouth, more out of muscle memory than agreement, and let her feed me again.

Jesus. This was pathetic.

I should be out there, hunting those bastards. Tearing through the city like vengeance made of bone and teeth.

I should be bleeding them.

But instead I was lying here in some cracked-sink apartment that smelled like plants and vanilla soy candles, high on painkillers or some other shit, and letting a barefoot girl with cat scratches on her arms feed me soup like a feral animal she’d decided to rehabilitate.

She stirred the spoon absently, “You know, I never liked hospitals. Too clean. Too... white and the lights buzz. You ever notice that? That awful fluorescent buzzing sound? Ugh.”

No. I hadn’t because I’m usually the one sending people to hospitals.

“I figured if I took you in, you’d either die quietly or wake up and strangle me.” She smiled at that like it was a joke. “So far, so good.”

My mouth twitched.

She caught it, her eyes lit up like I’d given her a gold medal.

“Oh my God. Was that a smile?” she gasped, “You can smile. It’s more of a pain-grimace, but I’ll take it. Smiling means you’ve got a heart in there somewhere. And maybe you’re not planning to murder me in my sleep.”

She didn’t shut up. That was the thing. She kept talking and she never stopped, not for air, not for logic, not for mercy.

“There’s this raccoon that comes to my fire escape sometimes. I named him Remy, after the rat in Ratatouille? Except Remy’s kind of a jerk. He hisses at Flan. She tries to hiss back, but her lungs are weird. So it’s more like a wheeze.”

I blinked at her. How did one person have so many stories? And why were they all so... bizarre?

“You should meet my neighbor. She’s ninety-three and thinks I’m a witch. Keeps giving me garlic and muttering prayers in Spanish. She means well. I think.”

I stared at her.

So soft. So warm.

So fucking unreal.

And she sure as fuck didn’t belong anywhere near me.

“I mean, okay, full disclosure, you look a little dangerous, I think it's because of the tattoos,” she said in this way-too-cheerful voice, like she was commenting on the weather or the price of avocados, “Not judging! I swear, I’m not that kind of person. I love tattoos. Love them. Very expressive. Very artsy. Yours are super intense, though. Again, not judging! It’s just, I have this thing about violence. I hate it. I can’t handle it. It makes me all clammy and panicky and sick to my stomach, and I’ve seen what violent people can do, and it’s horrible, and I just… really hope you’re not one of those people. You know? The ones who hurt people for fun or like, because they feel powerful or whatever. God, I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous. You probably noticed. Please don’t be evil.”

She inhaled like she’d just completed a 5k.

Jesus Christ.

If she knew even one thing about me, she’d have thrown herself off the fire escape as soon as I bled onto her perfect, sunshine-colored blankets.

Please don’t be evil? Sweetheart, I invented evil.

Hell, I didn’t just take pleasure in it. I was good at it. Violence was the only thing I’d ever been born for. Some men were made to build, to teach, to love. I was made to crack bones and empty magazines into kneecaps.

I wanted to tilt my head, smirk just enough to make her second-guess herself, and ask her, What if I am one of those bad people, Sunshine? What then?

I wanted to watch the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, hear her breath stutter just a little with fear.

Because fear was easy, fear was predictable, fear, I understood.

But her?

She was a fucking anomaly, a glitch in the system.

And she was talking so fast I was starting to think she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore.

“I mean, you can’t be a bad guy,” she rambled, shifting the bowl in her hands, “Because bad guys don’t say ‘please’ when they break into someone’s house all bloody and terrifying.”

She was trying to convince herself.

That’s what this was.

She wanted to believe I wasn’t the monster lurking in the dark. That I was just some unfortunate soul who stumbled into her little nest of sunshine and chamomile like I wasn’t soaked in the sins of a thousand men.

“Anyway,” she muttered. “I hope you’re not evil. That’d really suck.”

She set the bowl down and gently wiped the corner of my mouth with a towel. Her fingers brushed my jaw.

“Get some rest,” she whispered, all sunshine and lavender and fucking suicide. “You’re safe here.”

Safe.

I would’ve laughed if my lungs weren’t cracked glass.

Because somewhere between the drugs and the bleeding and the absurdity of this moment like her ridiculous soup and her crippled cat and her stories about raccoons, I realized something.

She’d brought the devil into her home.

And she was smiling at it.

Chapter 7 - SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

The thing about puppies is that they don’t care if you’ve had a terrible week or if your life is a little bit of a mess. They just bounce. All ears and paws and clumsy joy, like they were born with tiny trampolines in their bones.

“Okay, Bean, hold still. Nope! Nope, that’s my braid, Bean, please—”

I let out a squeaky laugh as the golden retriever puppy squirmed against the towel I’d wrapped around him, licking my chin.

“You’re making this very hard,” I told him, trying to wipe off the crust of gunk near his eye. “You know, some dogs are actually grateful when you clean them.”

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and lavender soap, which I liked because it reminded me of my mom’s kitchen after she’d bleach the floors and light one of those flower-scented candles back in Brazil.

Dr. Salazar was in the back, and I was technically just supposed to be sorting the food stock and prepping exam rooms, but when Nurse Kate had poked her head out and said, “You good with eye drops?” I might have accidentally volunteered to help.

“You have the gentlest hands,” she’d said.

That had made my whole month.

So now I was trying to convince Bean that saline was not the enemy and also that my braids weren't edible, and everything was going fine, just fine, until—

“Maddie.”

The voice behind me made my stomach drop. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

I turned and Carlos stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his EMT jacket, sunglasses still perched on his head even though we were indoors. His expression was flat and annoyed. I couldn't tell.

“Oh,” I said, wiping my hands on the towel and giving him a bright smile, “Hi! what are you doing here? Did you need me? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped further into the room, eyes trailing over the cluttered counter, the open bottle of eye drops, the clumsy sprawl of Bean across my arms.

“Busy?” he asked.

“I—I mean, not really!” I said, “I was just helping with this little guy’s eye.”

I let out a laugh and tried to hand Bean off to the nearest empty basket, which he promptly leapt out of like a very fuzzy ninja.

“Can we talk?” he asked, already turning toward the hallway without waiting for my answer.

“Oh. Um. Yes! Definitely. I just—let me clean this up, and I’ll—"

“I said now, Maddie.”

My fingers froze on the dropped towel. The back of my neck flushed hot.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Yeah. Okay.”

I followed him into the staff corridor. The walls back here were narrower, the lights buzzed overhead, and I suddenly hated the way my sneakers squeaked on the tile.

Carlos stopped at the end of the hallway near the water cooler, arms crossed again. That stance always made me feel small, even when he said he didn’t mean anything by it.

“I came by your apartment just now,” he said, voice even.

I blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah. You weren’t home.”

“Oh. I was here. They needed extra hands for bath day. All the big dogs got fleas. And then one of the bunnies escaped—”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped.

I took a step back, heart stuttering. His voice rattled something deep inside me. It wasn’t just him shouting. It was glass shattering. My mother's screams. My father’s face twisted in pain.

Suddenly I was a child again, hiding in the hallway closet, knees to my chest, praying they wouldn’t find me.

It was only yelling now but my body didn’t know the difference.

My throat tightened. My vision blurred. I hated how fast I shrank.

He stepped closer, his shadow eating up the hallway light. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My fingers curled into the hem of my scrub top. “Tell you what?”

His eyes narrowed, “Why that man was still in your apartment.”

I froze.

“And not just him, Jason was there too,” he went on, “Do you know what it felt like to go to my girlfriend’s place and find not one but two random guys there?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My lungs forgot how to breathe for a second.

“That man was literally bleeding to death and I couldn't just leave him on the floor.”

“We already got him checked at the clinic, he should’ve been gone the next fucking day! You let him stay?” he snapped, “You let a strange guy just stay in your apartment? While you’re alone?”

I shrank back more, clutching the clipboard tighter to my chest. “He’s injured. He’s not even conscious most of the time because of the sedatives and Jason’s my neighbor. He’s just helping. He’s very safe. He's a doctor and he's married.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Carlos hissed. “You’re defending them. You’re standing here and defending the fact that you’re playing nurse to some injured criminal—”

“He’s not a criminal!” I blurted, before I could stop myself. Then instantly regretted raising my voice, “I mean, I don’t know that he is, but I don’t know that he isn’t, either, but that’s not the point! The point is I just wanted to help! That’s all!”

“You let him stay,” he repeated. “That’s what point. I entertain your habit of bringing every other injured stray into your home but this time you've gone too far. He’s not a kitten. He’s a grown man.”

“I didn't mean to upsrt you. I thought if I just kept him stable until he could leave, and Jason said it’d be fine, and you’re always so busy, I didn’t want to be a problem—”

“I’m your boyfriend, Maddie!” His voice echoed down the hall, “You don’t hide things from me. You don’t lie. And you sure as fuck don’t let two men make themselves comfortable in your bed when I’m not there.”

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my clipboard.

“They’re not in my bed,” I whispered. “I—I’ve been sleeping on the floor.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “This is so messed up. Do you even realize how sketchy this all looks?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I do. I do realize. I really, really do. But I was just, he was hurt. That’s all it was. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve called.”

He looked at me for a long second. Then two. His mouth was hard.

And then, he said, “Get rid of him.”

My heart dropped.

“W-what?”

“You heard me. Tell him to leave or throw him out, I don't care.”

“Carlos, I—he can’t even walk yet. Dr. Lane said he needs another two days, at least.”

“I don’t care. You want to prove you respect me? You want me to trust you again?” his voice dropped low and turned almost threatening, “You want me to help you out next semester?! Then get him the fuck out.”

I couldn’t speak.

I could only nod.

Because Carlos had been helping with my semester fees and sometimes even groceries, I kept reminding myself he had a kind heart. He really did. He just... let his temper get the better of him sometimes. And he was jealous. I guess I would be too, if he were living with some injured girl, even if it was all innocent.

I watched him turn and walk away, his footsteps echoing off the clinic walls. My throat tightened. I blinked up at the ceiling, forcing the tears to stay right where they were.

Maybe once the sedatives wear off, I’ll ask him about his family, just gently, so I can call them. They’ll want to know he’s okay, maybe they’re worried sick. Or... maybe they don’t even know he’s hurt. Either way, someone should be there for him. Someone who really knows him.

I can't just throw him out.

I won't.

𓎢𓎠𓎟𖦁‎𓎟𓎠𓎡

The smell of oat milk and cinnamon wafted from the saucepan as I swayed in my fluffy alpaca socks.

I was making him something warm because when you’ve got a half-dead man in your bed and nothing in your fridge but tofu, oat milk, and questionable kale, you get creative.

Hence, oat-milk-cinnamon-soup. Or porridge. Or... potion. I didn’t know what to name it.

Flan sat on the kitchen counter in his little diaper, staring at me like I was the reason his ancestors died. I booped his nose.

"Don’t judge me, Flan," I said, reaching for my phone with one hand while the other kept whisking because I wanted to check the recipe.

I balanced the phone on the edge of the spice rack and turned around to grab the cinnamon again.

And then I heard it.

SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

I froze.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

I turned just in time to see my phone sliding face-first into the bubbling oat-milk concoction.

For a second, I just stared. As if my eyeballs alone could will time to rewind.

Then I shrieked like I’d been stabbed.

I dove for it without even thinking, burning my fingers on the edge of the pot and fishing it out like it was a drowning toddler. I wrapped it in a dishtowel, pressed all the buttons. Screen black. No buzz. Nothing. Just silence.

Pure, devastating, tech-death silence.

"NO, NO, YOU CAN'T DIE—I still owe on you!" I wailed.

"Okay, okay, rice. People put it in rice, right? I don’t have rice. I have quinoa. Does quinoa work?! Do you work, quinoa?!"

I didn’t have money for a new phone.

I had money for maybe...a MetroCard. A banana. Possibly a half-used chapstick from the dollar store but a new phone? No. Not after I spent everything I had on antiseptic supplies, antibiotics, extra sheets (because blood), medical tape, a mini humidifier to keep the air moist for his healing lungs, God, Maddie, why are you like this?!

"This is why I’m broke," I told Flan, "And now I can’t even call my p—"

I had work tomorrow. How was I gonna clock in? What if Jason needed to text me? What if the guy woke up and needed something? What if the vet called about Biscuit the pigeon with anxiety?

I clutched my oat-milk soaked phone to my chest.

“Okay. Okay. Think. You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re just... very, very broke.”

Flan meowed.

“I’m not crying,” I said, sniffling. “I’m just leaking emotions from my eyes.”

Then I heard something.

I froze at the sound.

A low, rough scrape.

Then another, softer, like something dragging across the floor.

I shot up from the floor, my feet sliding on the sticky oat milk that had dropped out of my phone.

What was happening? Was he up?

No. He couldn’t be. Dr. Lane had said he'd be out of it for at least another day. Too much sedation. His body was fragile, battered. He was supposed to be unconscious and delirious, maybe but unconscious.

I took a cautious step toward the hallway. My breath was shallow, and I tried to quiet the pounding in my chest as I moved closer to the bedroom. What if I was just hearing things? What if it was just the wind?

But the scraping noise persisted, then, the faint sound of something heavy shifting.

It couldn’t be him.

I bit my lip, hesitating for just a moment longer than I should’ve, before my feet moved against my will, my hands clammy, the faint smell of antiseptic and the lingering scent of the eucalyptus oil still in the air.

Each step felt too loud, like I was about to disturb something or worse, make myself a target. Was he in pain? Was he trying to get up?

No, no, no. He was sedated. That was supposed to make him sleep, make him rest. The doctor’s orders kept echoing in my mind.

But then another scrape came, more forceful this time.

My breath caught.

I reached the doorway.

I should have knocked. I should have called out first but the dread that had settled in my stomach urged me forward, pulling my body into the room before I could stop it.

I stepped inside, my gaze darting to the bed. He wasn’t there.

I blinked. The bed was empty.

For a heart-stopping moment, I thought maybe I had imagined it all, maybe he hadn’t been here at all.

But then—

I saw him.

Standing at the far side of the room.

His bare feet were planted on the floor, his posture was stiff, rigid. His face was half-hidden in shadow.

And his eyes locked onto mine.

I couldn’t even move. My legs felt like they might give way beneath me.

"You—" I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, "What are you doing?" I said as I felt myself take a step back.

He wasn’t supposed to be moving. He shouldn’t even be awake.

And then he took a step toward me.

My heartbeat shot up, my head spun, and for a split second, everything around me felt suffocating and.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t even blink.

Before I could react, before I could say anything again, before I could take another step back, he spoke again, his words came out as a low warning growl.

"Don't move."