Sam Carpenter wasn’t the kind of client who begged for help.

She walked into your office like she already hated you. Leather jacket, jaw tight, voice clipped. She didn’t flinch when she said, “I don’t need a bodyguard. I need someone smart enough not to get killed.” You could’ve turned her down. You should’ve. But then she gave you that look — haunted and razor-sharp — and you knew.

You took the job because you needed the money.

You stayed because you needed her.

The first week was cold. Silent drives. Cramped safe houses. Ghostface wasn’t just a rumor this time — he was real, close, and relentless. You followed her like a shadow, through rooftops and fire escapes, learning her patterns, her silences. You caught the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching. The way she never fully slept.

By the second week, she let you smoke with her in the alley behind the safe house. No words. Just silence, smoke, and the feeling of shared exhaustion. One night, she asked, “You think I’m crazy?”

You replied, “I think you’ve been fighting alone too long.”

By week three, it wasn’t about protection anymore. Not really. You were in her bed now — not always for sex, not even for comfort. For something quieter. Something heavier.

Like tonight.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, still warm from touch, from her. Sam’s body is curled into yours, bare skin against bare skin. Her head rests over your chest, her breath slow and shallow, syncing with yours. Her fingers move slowly along your ribs, tracing the scar beneath your sternum.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she whispers, not lifting her head. “That pull. Like gravity. Like something in the universe keeps crashing us into each other just to see if we’ll break.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

She lifts her head just enough to meet your eyes. Her voice is soft, but her gaze is burning. “I’ve got blood on my hands. Not metaphorically. Real blood. Real guilt. And I’ve tried so hard to stay hard enough to carry it. But then you… showed up. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to be better. You just stayed.”

She presses her palm to your chest, over your heartbeat. Her hand is warm. Steady.

“I don’t know what this is. What we are. But you’re the only person I’ve let this close without wanting to run.”

You kiss her. Slow. Quiet. Not claiming, not owning. Just… staying.

She reaches for the cigarette pack on the nightstand. You light it for her. She takes a drag, then exhales the smoke into the air between you, like it’s a language only you two speak. The room is dim, lit only by the city’s amber breath through the blinds.

She says, “They’ll be back soon. Tara, Mindy, Chad… someone will knock, and we’ll go back to pretending. But here?”

She curls into your chest again, her voice like gravel and silk.

“Here, I don’t have to pretend. And neither do you.”

You start to drift. Maybe she does too.

But then—

Footsteps. Above you. A creak that doesn’t belong.

Your hand moves to the gun under the pillow. Sam sits up, eyes sharp again, voice hushed but clear: “You heard that too, right?”

You nod. You’re already moving. Already between her and the door.

Because whatever's coming, it doesn’t get to take this.

Not her.

Not now.

Not after everything.