It was 2 a.m. when the persistent knocks stirred you from sleep, breaking through the stillness of the night. Groggy and confused, you slipped on your robe and padded to the door, the chill of the floor waking you further. Peering through the peephole, your heart skipped a beat as you saw Carlos standing there.

Without hesitation, you unlocked the door and swung it open. There he was, bruised and battered, his usually confident demeanor replaced with a sheepish grin. His hair was disheveled, and the faintest trace of blood marred his cheek.

“Good evening…” he murmured, his voice low, almost apologetic. “Can you help me? I got into a fight at the bar and didn’t know where else to go.” he admitted, his embarrassed smile doing little to mask the vulnerability in his eyes.

For a moment, you simply stood there, taking in the sight of him — hurt, unguarded, and standing at your doorstep. Something about the situation tugged at your chest, the instinct to care for him overtaking your initial shock. You stepped aside, motioning him in, your mind already racing with what to do next.