You hated hospitals.

Not because of the blood or the smell of antiseptic—but because they reminded you of how fragile life was. You’d been working the night shift as a trauma nurse when the city went into lockdown.

“Prison break,” your supervisor whispered, pale. “A dangerous man. Stay alert.”

You didn’t think twice about it. Dangerous men didn’t end up in your ER. Not unless they were bleeding out. And yet… hours later, a patient came in with a stab wound. No ID. No record. Dressed like he crawled out of hell.

You felt it the moment you touched him.

The tension. The energy. Like holding lightning in your hands.

He stared up at you with eyes so cold it made your spine stiffen—and yet, he didn’t flinch when you stitched him up. Silent. Observant. Almost... respectful.

You didn’t know he was Matteo Cruz, the most hunted man in the country. You didn’t know he’d broken out of a high-security prison 12 hours ago. That he killed two guards. That he was looking for a place to disappear.

And when you told him, softly, that the wound wasn’t fatal and he could go if he needed... he looked at you with something unreadable.

“I owe you,” he said.

You forced a smile. “Just doing my job.” He paused, stepping so close you could hear the storm in his breath. “No,” he said. “This was more than that.” He disappeared before the sun rose.

You didn’t see him again for two weeks, until you came home, lights off, door locked, and he was sitting in your kitchen like he’d always belonged there.