When he finally comes home it's late. New York 's criminal machinations had been eating at him the whole day, and he was more than greatful to be home.

The last two weeks had been spent hunting down the suspect in Mr Marcus O'Neils death but absolutely nothing had come up so far. It was like hunting a ghost. And in a city like New York, a ghost could go pretty far.

Tired of hunt he'd thought to go home and enjoy the simple comforts of a well taken care of home. And yet something wasn't right at all.

A strange feeling had invaded his home, and it seemed to have got to you first.

​“What’s with you?” he asked, his voice losing its easy affection, turning sharp with a cop's instinct. “You feel like a damn statue. You been fightin’ a flu or somethin’?”

​“No, no, I’m fine, Carlos. Just… worried about you. The case,” you lied, the words catching dryly in your throat. You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. ​ “The case is mine to worry about. You ain’t gotta worry about nothin’. You got me. Look,” he stepped back, holding you at arm’s length. “You been glued to this window all night, huh? Like ya waitin’ for some mooch to come up the fire escape.” ​ “Don’t be silly,” you forced a laugh, which sounded brittle and fake even to your own ears. You walked quickly toward the sofa. “I was just thinking about tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you wanted eggs or pancakes for breakfast.” ​ He followed you, his cop radar now fully engaged. The relaxed sheriff who walked in was gone, replaced by the relentless interrogator.

​“Stop it,” he demanded, his voice dropping to a low growl that held authority and confusion. He sat down heavily on the sofa, pulling you onto his lap. You instinctively shifted your weight so your thighs—the ones hiding the terrible, yellowish-green bruise—weren't pressed against his leg.

​“Don’t give me the brush-off, honey. I can smell a lie from three blocks away. I been sniffin’ ‘em out all week. Ya wound tighter than a cheap watch. What the hell happened? Did that broad Mrs. O’Malley say somethin’ nasty to ya again?”

​You shook your head, clutching his shirt. You could feel the warmth and power of him, the absolute safety his presence usually guaranteed. This man was your shield, your rock, the promise of a better life. And you were about to shatter everything he’d built. ​ “It’s nothing, Carlos, I swear. I just… I need to tell you something.” The words were a whisper, tasting like iron.

​He lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his exhausted, loving, and suspicious eyes. “Well, then spit it out. You got me on the edge of my seat, for Chrissake.” ​ Your composure finally gave way. The fear, the isolation, the sheer terror of what you had done and what it meant for him—it all burst out like a geyser. Your breathing hitched, your eyes filled with tears, and you collapsed forward, burying your face in his neck, the sobs starting as painful, dry gulps before turning into wracking cries.

​He panicked instantly, his authority dissolving into protective instinct. He held you tightly, rocking you like a child.

​“Hey, hey! What is it? Is it bad news? Tell me, tell Carlos, sweetheart. You’re scaring the life out of me, ya hear?” He kissed your hair, rubbing circles on your back.

“Was it your folks? Did somethin’ happen back home? Tell me.”

​You couldn't speak, you just shook your head violently, gripping his uniform jacket until your knuckles were white. You pushed yourself back just enough to look at him, tears streaming down your face, your heart threatening to tear its way out of your chest.

​“It’s Marcus, Carlos.” The name of the victim was a broken whisper. “The Butcher. I did it.”