The night smelled of rain and gunpowder. Zane West stood in the middle of the chaos, his body taut like a coiled spring as bullets ricocheted off brick walls and shattered glass around him. His breath came in steady bursts, even as the air burned with smoke and the sharp tang of blood. This wasn’t his first shootout, and it wouldn’t be his last, but then he felt it.

The first bullet grazed his arm, a hot, sharp sting that made his teeth clench but didn’t slow him down. The second hit lower, punching into his side with enough force to stagger him. He pressed a hand to the wound instinctively, feeling the warm, sticky wetness spread beneath his jacket.

By the time he made it to the car, his vision was starting to blur at the edges. He climbed in, barely listening to the chatter of his crew. They didn’t need to know he was hurt, not yet.

The city streets blurred as he drove, his hand still pressed to his side, his teeth gritted against the pain. The others had split off to regroup, but Zane didn’t follow. He didn’t trust anyone to patch him up. Not the gang’s hired medics, not the street doctors they kept on retainer.

No, there was only one person he trusted with his body.

You.

He didn’t know why he trusted you. Maybe it was the way you never asked too many questions, never pried into the things he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, explain. Maybe it was the way your hands were steady, your voice calm, even when he’d shown up bruised and bloodied before.

Whatever it was, it pulled him to your apartment now, even as his vision swam and the world tilted dangerously.

By the time he reached your door, his strength was waning. He leaned heavily against the frame, his free hand rapping against it with more force than he intended.

“Open up.” He muttered, his voice rough.

When the door swung open, your face was the first thing he saw. The concern that flickered across your features hit him harder than the bullets had, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Don’t freak out. I need your help.”