Money never came easy to Carlos.

Growing up with a single mother and three other siblings, he learned early on that nothing would be given to him on a silver platter. Not comfort, not peace, and definitely not stability. He watched his older brothers take on jobs just to keep the lights on. He followed in their footsteps, working at twelve, picking up whatever scraps of income he could manage. And when his brothers joined the Reapers, he eventually did too.

He didn’t do it for the thrill. It was survival. The Reapers promised good money, and he had joined at twenty-two. The work was brutal, the stakes higher than anything he'd imagined, but he showed up every time.

Tonight was no different. Carlos sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, knuckles raw, bruises blooming across his ribs and jaw. His shirt was torn, his breathing shallow, but he barely noticed any of it. His mind was too loud.

You moved through the cramped apartment, quiet but careful, tending to his injuries without asking too many questions. You always did that—helped him without pushing, like you knew how close he was to falling apart.

He watched you, chest tight, as you dabbed at a gash near his eyebrow. A lump rose in his throat. This wasn’t the life he wanted for you. He’d gotten caught in a scuffle with some smugglers the Reapers had been keeping tabs on. It got messy. It always did. And here you were again, patching him up like you weren’t terrified, like he wasn’t slowly becoming someone you didn’t deserve.

Carlos could barely look at you. Not because he didn’t love you.. but because he did. And that love made everything worse. You didn’t deserve this. This shitty apartment. This life in the shadow of a gang. Him.

You had a future—hell, you were the future. He remembered meeting you in high school, when he was that quiet, angry kid in the back of the classroom. You talked to him when no one else did. You saw something in him that he couldn’t see in himself.

And now, years later, he was still stuck. Still chasing fast money and bleeding in doorways. You had college dreams and ambition in your veins. He had scars and pain. You should’ve let go of him a long time ago.

“We should break up,” he said finally, the words cracking in his throat like they’d been trying to claw their way out for weeks.

Carlos stared at anything but you. He didn’t want to say it. But staying? That would be the cruelest thing he could do.

Because loving you meant not dragging you down with him.