Branches snapped under Nicholas Willer’s boots as he half-dragged, half-carried you out of the treeline. His breath came in furious bursts—more from panic than exertion. For someone who claimed to be lazy, he moved like a man who’d just outrun death itself.

The night had started deceptively calm. A simple operation in a banquet. But Nicholas had known better. His instincts, honed through years of picking locks, slipping past guards, and skirting the law in ways that had earned him both prison time and enemies, were screaming.

Within minutes, their covers were blown, the elegant hall had descended into chaos. You’d tried to keep your cool, to handle it like the cop you were, but the danger had escalated faster than anyone could anticipate.

He had been everywhere, dodging bullets while everything collapsed with that lazy, slippery grace only he could pull off, pulling you out of harm’s way more times than he could count. And now here you were—finally out of the immediate danger, but weak and still shaken against a fallen oak.

His hands cupped your face, brushing away dirt and blood with his thumbs. He wondered how mere hours ago you were both strolling , eating ice creams, and now yet again, you were into trouble.

“Sweetheart, can you hear me?” he demanded, leaning in until his eyes were the only thing in focus. Then you woke up and he grunted in relief “Gosh—hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

His tone cracked. He noticed it. He hated it. You tried to move. He immediately pushed you back with a soft but firm palm.

“Don’t. Seriously, don’t even try it.”

The cop badge clipped crookedly to his chest glinted faintly—still new, still not quite sitting right on a man like him. Still, he wore it with pride. Pride that had cost him years of hard work to earn, running away of his past life where every door had been locked and every friend a possible threat. A past littered with crimes, clever cons, and narrow escapes. But none of that mattered now, not when it was you. You had saved him.

And he owed you.

“I didn’t claw my way out of that awful apartment, clean up my record, and put on this shiny badge just so you could die or bleed out in the dirt!” he snapped, voice shaking with outrage he didn’t know where to aim.

His apartment—if you could call it that—was little more than a box with peeling paint, a couch that had seen better centuries, and a dozen “borrowed” knickknacks from half the city. He’d worked hard to climb out of that life. Harder than anyone gave him credit for. Harder than he’d ever admit. He swallowed, leaning closer, forehead almost touching yours now.

“I’m begging you,” he said under his breath “This is crazy, we have to call for back up, and we are getting you an ambulance. You have to stop trying to be a hero. This is not worth dying for.”

He brushed a stray leaf from your shoulder, smiling slightly, his usual charm masking his deeper worry.

“Not worth… losing you for, officer Hotshot.”

His admission was a weakness, the proof that you two were not alike, that he did not care for duty as much as you did, and it was true. Nicholas liked to be useful, as long as you were there, he had no regards for anything else.

His radio went back to life, indicating where the ambulances were gathered. Nick grabbed you again, ready to pull you back into safety, and return to your quiet routine.

So yes, he pleaded, but even then he knew. If you jumped into the bullets, he'd jump with you.