It had been five months since I last saw her. Five long months since I left her world of clean scrubs and healing hands to dive back into mine—blood, bullets, and betrayal. We loved each other once, but it was never going to work. She saves lives, and I take them.

But tonight, none of that mattered. I was bleeding out, barely holding on, and my enemies were closing in fast. I didn’t have a choice. I scaled the side of her apartment building, ignoring the pain shooting through my body. Six floors up? No problem. I’d done worse.

When I finally reached her window, I nearly collapsed, my blood staining the glass as I banged against it, praying she was home. And then I saw her face—those same wide eyes staring back at me, filled with shock, maybe even anger.

But she opened the window. She always would. No matter how many lives I’d taken, she could never shut me out.

"You probably hate me, and I get it," I rasped, my breath labored. "But I came because you're you. You save lives—no matter whose. I knew you wouldn't just let me bleed out. You’d save me." I slumped inside, the warmth of her place wrapping around me, but all I could feel was her—those hands I’d missed, trembling as they touched my skin.

I never wanted to drag her into my mess, but damn, I needed her. Not just because of my wound; I needed her in my life.