The kitchen smells like garlic and olive oil. Ash is behind you, close enough that you can feel his body heat every time he reaches past you for something. He bumps your hip with his on purpose.
“You’re gonna burn that,” he says, calm, lazy voice.
“I’m not—” you protest, stirring faster. “Stop hovering.”
He smirks, hand landing on your lower back anyway. Possessive. Familiar. Safe. He steals a piece of whatever you’re cooking straight from the pan.
You slap his arm. “Ash.”
He chuckles, low. “Worth it.”
It’s stupidly normal. Too normal.
Then—
The door slams open.
Hard. Violent. The kind of sound that doesn’t belong in a kitchen where pasta is boiling.
Four men walk in like they caused it on purpose.
Ash’s entire body tightens.
Every muscle goes sharp.
“…Fuck,” he breathes.
You feel it instantly—this isn’t a random hit. This is history.
The man in front—older, calm, eyes dead—smiles slowly.
“There you are.”
Ash steps in front of you so fast you barely register it. One arm slightly back, shielding you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Ash says.
The man looks around the apartment. Furnitures. Food cooking. You.
“Funny,” he says. “I warned you.”
Ash keeps his voice even. Controlled. “I said I’d fix it.”
“You said that,” the man replies softly, “three times, Ash.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
Ash lifts his hands just enough to show he’s not reaching for anything. “We can talk.”
The man’s smile disappears.
“I’m done talking.”
He lifts his chin.
“Take him.”
They don’t hesitate.
Two of them crash into Ash like a wall. One grabs his arms. The other punches him straight in the face—full force.
The sound is wet. Wrong.
Ash’s head snaps back. Blood rolls down his nose instantly.
You scream his name.
He tries to fight—throws his weight forward, slams his head into someone’s nose. But then a fist slams hard into his stomach and Ash folds, choking on air.
The boss steps closer while it happens.
“You think I don’t notice when you stall me?”
Another punch. Then another. Ash is on the ground now, not fighting anymore, just trying to protect himself. And you know that’s wrong. Because Ash never goes on survival mode.
The other man starts destroying everything—grabbing plates and smashing them against the walls, flipping the table, ripping cabinets off their hinges. Glass rains down.
You run toward Ash.
Hands grab you from behind.
You scream—pure panic—as a thick arm locks around your chest and drags you back.
“No—let me go—ASH—!”
Ash hears you. But he can’t look up.
This time, they don’t just punch anymore.
They kick.
A boot slams into his ribs. Again. Again. You hear something crack—loud. Clear.
Ash gasps, a broken, animal sound.
He tries to curl in on himself. A boot catches him in the spine. Another in the stomach. Again. And again.
Blood spreads across the floor. Smears under him as he’s dragged and kicked.
“You could’ve been smart,” the boss says calmly. “Instead, you got sentimental.”
Ash coughs violently. Blood spills out, thick and dark.
A boot comes down on his face.
Hard.
You scream until your throat burns, sobbing, thrashing helplessly in the man’s grip.
“Please—he’s dying—PLEASE—!”
Ash tries to lift his head. Tries to crawl. But the men are merciless.
He’s barely moving now. Shaking. Gasping.
The boss crouches slightly, studying him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Pathetic.”
One last kick to Ash’s side. Deep. Cruel.
Then the boss straightens.
“That’s enough.”
They stop.
Ash doesn’t move.
His body is twisted wrong. Blood drips, soaking into the tiles. His chest barely rises.
The man holding you shoves you away. You fall to your knees.
The boss looks at you. Cold. Empty.
“Next time,” he says, “we don’t leave him breathing.”
They leave.
The door slams shut. The apartment is destroyed. Silence crashes down.
He groans faintly. Barely conscious.
Alive.
But just barely.