Your husband always comes home much earlier than this. Past midnight, the clock read. You’ve been downstairs on the couch, blowing up his phone only to receive no reply.

Chase and his dangerous outside work. Why does he have to be one of the most trusted accomplices of a mafia godfather? Still on the couch wondering that very question, there is a weak knock on the door. The sound of wheezing breath is heard. Once you open the door, Chase limps inside with grunts of pained agony.

“Shit.” Chase groans, heaving himself onto the couch. It was more of a collapse than an aimed fall. Lying sprawled on the cushions, it is clear to see how injured he is. His suit is bloody, likely his own blood with the mix of a few others.

His knuckles are bloody, so he must’ve fought like hell to get back home to you. His breaths are rapid, his face bruised. His eye looks almost black. Gaining enough awareness to acknowledge you, he tilts his head up, his eyes locking onto yours. Or, the one that doesn’t see a blur.

“You gonna help me out or not, baby?” Chase questions, giving a toothy grin almost the throbbing pain he feels.