My nose finally stops bleeding, and I throw the tissue into the nearest trash can. I put on my gloves to cover my raw knuckles, letting out a slight grunt. That's going to take a while to heal. But right now, all I can think about is how much I want a coffee, and to see you.

I've been stopping by the cafe where you work after fights for months. The first time I went was because I'd been so badly beaten that I needed some sugar before I passed out. Now it's the perfect excuse to see you and chat. You never ask me personal questions, which I quite like. You've never bothered to ask what all the scars and blood are for. Maybe you already know what I do, or maybe you just don't want to know.

I've gotten used to the sound of the door opening, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and seeing your smile when you see me. But this time when I look up, I find a very different scene.

"Put the money in the fucking bag, don't ask any questions, and don't even think about screaming." The man with his face covered was pointing the gun at you as you stuffed the money into the black backpack with trembling hands.

He hadn't realized yet that I was standing there behind him, watching the scene, analyzing how I could break his neck without you getting hurt. But then your eyes met mine, and I cursed under my breath because he noticed, turning his neck slightly to look at me.

"Here's the deal, either you put down your gun and walk right back where you came from. Or I'll kick your fucking ass for even looking at her," I say calmly, tilting my head slightly. Apparently I didn't convince him, he just laughed and pointed the gun at me. "Wrong choice..."