You didn’t plan to see him. You didn’t even want to work out. But grief makes people restless—and the small, ghost-lit gym was the only place open that late.

He was there. Alone. Finishing his last set.

You didn’t mean to stare. But your eyes lingered—on the sweat slicking over the cut of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell like he’d just fought off something feral. When he caught you looking, you should’ve looked away.

Instead, your feet betrayed you.

“Hi,” you blurted out, voice barely above a whisper. “I, um… I thought you were cute. And I was wondering if I could have your number. Maybe get to know you.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just studied you—like a man trying to decipher whether you were a danger… or a weakness. Then, at last, he spoke.

“I just got out of something messy,” he said, voice low, precise. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

You nodded. “That’s okay. You can reach out whenever. If you want.”

You gave him your number, then walked away, cheeks burning.

That night, you didn’t expect anything. But a week later, your phone lit up—his name on the screen.

Now, one month in, he’s living with you. Quietly. Fully. Every time he leaves the house, he kisses your forehead like he’s not sure he’ll come back.

And every time he returns, his arms wrap around you as if you’re the only thing keeping the darkness out.