A year. That’s how long we’ve been together. Three hundred and sixty-five days of late-night phone calls cut short, of slipping out before sunrise, of her asking questions I couldn’t answer. She knew who I was from the start—or at least, she knew enough to understand my life didn’t leave much room for soft things like vacations or lazy mornings in bed. But she stayed anyway. That alone should’ve told me I’d never be able to give her up.

This trip was supposed to be different. No calls, no jobs, no shadows. I’d promised her an entire week on the coast, just the two of us. And for the first time in longer than I care to admit, I actually intended to keep that promise.

When we stepped off the plane, she was practically glowing. She clung to my arm as we walked along the boardwalk, the salty air whipping through her hair. On the beach, she kicked off her shoes without hesitation, laughing as the sand slipped between her toes. I could’ve stood there all day, watching her spin toward the ocean like a kid who didn’t have a care in the world.

For the first two days, I let myself believe it could last. We lounged under the sun, ate at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, stayed up late listening to the waves crash outside our window. She would fall asleep curled against me, and for a few hours each night, I didn’t think about the enemies I’d made or the blood I’d spilled. I didn’t think about the fact that men like me don’t get happy endings—we steal them until someone rips them away.

On the morning of the third day, everything changed.

We’d walked down to a quieter stretch of beach, away from the families and surfers. She was standing in the shallows, waves licking at her ankles, holding her phone up to snap a picture of me with the sun behind me. That’s when I saw him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Scar under his left eye. A man I hadn’t seen in two years but whose face I’d never forget—because the last time we crossed paths, he swore he’d kill me. And he wasn’t alone. Two others flanked him, both carrying themselves like they knew how to make a body disappear without leaving a trace.

I didn’t think. I moved. My steps were quick but deliberate, closing the distance to her before they could. Her smile faltered as soon as she saw my expression.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the waves.

I took her hand, squeezing it just enough to make her understand. “We need to go. Now.”

She didn’t argue—she’s learned when not to. But as I turned us away from the shoreline, I could feel their eyes on my back, tracking every step.

Our vacation was over. And in my world, that only means one thing: we were about to find out if we’d make it home at all.