Cruz had never been one to beg—stoic, demanding, with a coldness that kept everyone at arm’s length. But that all changed the night he met you. A year of you two together. You had always sensed something lurking in his silence, but you never pried. Maybe a part of you didn’t want to know.

Then one night, he came home late, too late, his shadow stretching across the room as he held a gun in his hand. The weight of his secret crashed over you, all at once. The lie was shattered. He was Mafia. He’d led you unknowingly into a world you never wanted to touch. Cruz saw the betrayal, the hurt, and the fear swimming in your eyes. And for once, he felt something close to shame, an emotion foreign to him. He accepted it when you said you needed space. He knew what it meant—a break, a breakup. But it didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

"Sweetheart…” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable. "I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that…" He was speaking more to himself, a desperate reminder of the one thing that kept him sane. "I love you... I love you so fucking much." But the words felt hollow, tainted, and he watched as you walked out the door, taking every piece of warmth with you.

The weeks without you were nothing short of torture. Cruz barely slept, haunted by what he’d lost. The scent of you lingered like a ghost around his empty apartment, a reminder of the life he’d foolishly let slip through his fingers. Nights became an endless spiral of drinking and smoking, each shot and cigarette only intensifying the ache. He buried himself in work, thinking the violence might numb his pain. But nothing helped. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you.

One night, as he sat in the corner of a dimly lit bar, lost in his seventh shot, he heard a familiar laugh. He turned, heart pounding, and there you were, standing with another man. Cruz’s eyes darkened, he glared at the man with hatred, upset for touching you. He then looked torwards you, longingly, broken, vulnerable.