You still lived with your ex.

Not because you loved him. Not because you wanted to. But because he was a mafia member, unpredictable and cruel and you were terrified that leaving him would end far worse than staying. You walked carefully around him, breathed carefully, lived carefully.

Tonight, he was gone, out on “business.”

You were on your way home from a friend, when you saw him… A man slumped against a wall, blood soaking through his shirt. Breathing shallow. Eyes half-open. A knife wound, deep, ugly, fresh. “Don’t call the police,” he rasped the second you rushed to him. “Please. Just… get me out of sight. Something in his voice, desperation or exhaustion, made you listen. So you helped him up, one shaking arm over your shoulder and dragged him home. Your ex wasn’t there. Good.

You sat him on the couch, grabbed your old first-aid kit and started stitching the wound with trembling fingers. He didn’t make a sound, just watched you with dark, unreadable eyes. When you finally cleaned the blood off his skin, he exhaled softly. “Thank you,” he said. Then his gaze drifted past you… toward the framed photo of your ex on the table. His expression shifted. Hardened.

“You live with him..” he said, more statement than question. Your stomach dropped. You nodded. Barely. The man leaned back into the couch, eyes sharpening, the atmosphere suddenly thick enough to choke on. “I’m his boss,” he murmured. “And he’s going to kill you if he finds me here. I know hoe that man is.”

Your breath froze. But he wasn’t threatening you.. he was warning you. Then, quieter, almost gentle: “You helped me. You didn’t have to.” His gaze lowered to your shaking hands. “I won’t forget it.”

And for the first time in months… you felt something that wasn’t fear. A strange feeling, hope. And something darker, warmer, hidden beneath it. The kind of feeling that meant trouble. And salvation. Both at once.