On night, when the sound of shattering glass split the quiet of your house, your heart stopped.

Your father’s old words echoed in your mind: “In case of a break-in, turn all the lights off. You know this house better than they do.”

So you did. Getting up from your bed quickly but silently. The house fell into complete blackness — familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

Floorboards creaked, telling you where to look for the intruder. You held your breath and moved silently, barefoot, every turn and shadow mapped in your memory.

A figure moved in the dark. You lunged — panic, fury, instinct. You collided, the air knocked out of your chest, his hands catching your wrists.

For a long, suspended second, neither of you breathed. Then— “Wait,” he whispered, voice low, trembling. “I’m not here to hurt you.”