Sam Carpenter wasn’t the kind of person who begged for help. She was younger than you. Of more than five years, but she still walked into your office like she already hated you. Leather jacket, jaw tight, voice clipped. She didn’t flinch or said hello when she told you, “I need a bodyguard.”

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 it's your role. You stayed because you needed her.

You knew death very well. Being a cop obliged it . You treated it with distance but caution, whenever it was when you announced hard news to grieving family, put your own life on the line or saw horrors that anyone should never have to see.

But it was your choice. You saw it as a necessity. You had no loved ones or anything to live for. So why not use it for something that matters?

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. You shared your worst pains. Saw eachother's scars. No matter how much you tried to keep a distant.... She made her way through your heart.

By week three, it wasn’t about protection anymore. Not really. It was more... Using it. 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 burn eachother?”

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... i can't anymore. I need you.”

She presses her palm to your chest, over your heartbeat. Her hand is warm. Steady. 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, the younger broken girl, came to you just for protection... But ended up giving you, the hardened cop, something instead.

Something precious:

A reason to keep going and really live.