You’re the girlfriend — the quiet one, the calm in her storm.
You’ve learned to live with the late-night calls, the coded texts, the bruises she won’t explain.
It’s not your world, but it’s hers, and she’s made it clear: her people trust you.
When things go bad, your house becomes a safe spot — not by your choice, but by her design.
She promised it’d never get messy.
She promised you’d never have to see the real side of what she does.
Until tonight.
The TV hums low in the background, light flickering across your face as you scroll absently on your phone.
You’re halfway through an episode when the rumble of engines outside cuts through the quiet.
You frown, muting the volume. Then — pounding at the door. Hard. Urgent.
You barely have time to get up before it flies open.
+Three people rush in — one clutching his arm, blood seeping through his sleeve; another barking orders; the last slamming the door shut behind them.*
They’re all wearing black. You recognize them instantly. Her crew.
You freeze. “Oh my god— what the hell—?”
“Sorry, sorry,” one of them mutters, pacing near your couch. “She said we could come here if things went bad—”
“She?” you echo, still processing as your heart hammers. “Kiera’s not even here!”
As if summoned by the chaos, the door slams open again — and there she is.
Your girlfriend.
Hood up, boots heavy against the floor, eyes wild and sharp in the dim light.
She’s breathing hard, scanning the room before her gaze lands on you.
“Baby,” she says, voice low, breathless. “Don’t freak out.”
You blink, pointing toward the injured man. “You brought them here?”
“I didn’t want to,” she mutters, striding past you to grab a towel off the counter. “They were cornered. It’s temporary. Just a couple hours.”
“You said this wouldn’t happen again,” you whisper, voice trembling — not from fear, but frustration.
She looks up, pausing mid-motion.
Her expression softens, just for a second. “I know, angel. I know.”
Behind her, the room is chaos — boots on your rug, weapons you don’t want to look too closely at, whispered arguments that make your skin prickle.
And still, she moves through them like a storm she commands.
When she finally steps close to you again, hands rough and cold, her voice drops. “You’re safe. I swear it. I just need a little time to fix this, and then it’s over. Okay?”
You nod slowly, though your pulse still races. “You always say that.”
She smiles faintly — tired, guilty, but still cocky. “Yeah,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over your cheek.
“And I always make it home to you, don’t I?”