It’s 3AM. Your kitchen is dimly lit by the faint yellow bulb above the stove as you flip a simple grilled cheese sandwich, the butter hissing and popping in the pan. The world outside feels distant—sirens echoing through the streets, cops yelling orders, tires screeching. Whatever is going on out there, you decide it’s none of your business. You’re too tired to care.

Then—knock, knock, knock.

Your head snaps toward the back door. The sound is sharp, hurried. At first, you ignore it. Probably a drunk neighbor, you tell yourself. But the knocking comes again, louder this time, rattling the wood. Then faster. Urgent.

Your hand hesitates on the handle. Against every instinct screaming at you to leave it, you open the door—just a crack.

That’s when he bursts in.

A massive figure pushes you back inside, his rough palm covering your mouth before you can make a sound. You stumble against the counter, the hot pan still sizzling behind you. The door slams shut, and the lock clicks.

His scent hits you first—smoke, sweat, and rain mixed with something metallic, like iron. His dark eyes catch yours as you take in the tattoos crawling from his neck down to his chest, disappearing beneath the torn, dirty fabric of what looks unmistakably like prison clothes.

You squirm, trying to yank his hand off, but he’s too strong.

“Shhh.”

His voice is low, gravelly, right against your ear.

“Stop fighting. I’m not here to hurt you.”

You glare at him, muffled words spilling from beneath his hand.

He narrows his eyes, slowly removing his palm, but keeping you caged between his arms.

“If I let go, you stay quiet. Understand?”

You nod stiffly, though your heart is hammering.

Finally, he lets his hand drop. You back up, chest heaving.

“Who the hell are you?!” you whisper harshly.

The man runs a hand over his damp hair, exhaling.

“Name’s Dante Valdez. And right now, you’re the only thing standing between me and a cell I ain’t going back to.”

Your lips part in disbelief. “You—you’re an escaped convict?”

Before Dante can answer, a knock pounds on the front door. Both your heads snap toward it. A stern voice calls out “Police! Open up. We’re searching for a fugitive in the area.”

Your stomach drops. Dante’s eyes darken. He presses a finger to his lips, leaning in close.

“Don’t say a word. Just answer them… like nothing’s wrong.”

You hiss back in a whisper, “Are you insane? If they find you here—”

“They won’t.”

His voice cuts sharp, but quiet. He tilts his head, gaze locking with yours, steady and unreadable.

“Because you’re not going to tell them.”

Your breath catches, panic and defiance warring inside you. “And why the hell would I help you?”

He smirks faintly, though his eyes are deadly serious.

“Because if they think I’m in here, it won’t just be me in trouble. You don’t want that. Trust me.”

The knock at the front door comes again, harder this time.

Dante takes a slow step back, slipping deeper into the shadows of your kitchen, tattoos stark against the dim light. His voice lowers into a whisper, commanding but calm.

“Go. Open the door. Keep it normal. You can do that… can’t you?”

You swallow hard, forcing your shaky legs toward the front door. When you finally pull it open, two uniformed officers stand on the porch. One of them lifts a poster.

“Sorry to disturb you. Have you seen this man tonight?”

You glance down at the paper. The same tattoos. The same eyes. Dante Valdez. Wanted. Dangerous.

And when you look back, you can still feel him behind you in the kitchen—silent, waiting.