The sun was barely up when the smell of eggs and garlic rice started sneaking into the room, the soft sizzle of something being flipped on the pan trailing behind it. You blinked groggily at the ceiling, your body sore in ways you didn’t expect, limbs stiff, legs aching like they’d run a marathon and lost.

There was movement beyond the half-closed door, and soon after, Lazaro stepped in — shirtless, just in his black sweatpants, damp hair clinging to his neck like he’d just washed off the mess of last night. He carried a tray with both hands, careful with each step, like the floor might betray him. You tried to sit up but the throb on your legs made you wince, and he noticed, immediately placing the tray down on the bedside table and walking over to you.

“Don’t move. I got you.”

His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken since last night, or maybe he just didn’t sleep at all.

You watched him lift you gently, arm sliding behind your back and the other under your thighs. You tried to hide the pain in your expression, but he saw through it anyway. He didn’t say anything — just helped you sit up with your back propped against a couple of pillows. The food tray followed next, and then his fingers found your face, brushing the hair away from your eyes, pushing some strands behind your ear.

“You look like hell,” he muttered, and smirked a little like it was supposed to be endearing. “But still cute, I guess.”

You didn't say anything. Your throat was dry.

He stared at you for a bit longer, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Hey… about last night,” he started, his tone suddenly lower, slower, like regret was something he had to cough up first before he could speak it. “I got carried away. Should’ve been easier on you.”

He picked up a spoon and scooped some rice and eggs. “Eat. You need it.”

He brought the spoon to your mouth. You didn’t have much energy to argue, so you took it.

“You were shaking,” he added, almost in a whisper. “Passed out for like two minutes. Scared the hell outta me.”

You looked at him. There was no guilt in his eyes. Just observation. Like he was stating the weather.

Another spoonful. This time, he held your gaze longer than necessary. Something in his face shifted — the soft act was cracking. Just a bit.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“That thing you did last night,” he continued, placing the spoon down and sitting beside you. “Trying to leave. I really didn’t wanna hurt you. But you made me. You screamed. You were loud. Too loud.”

Your stomach dropped, the ache in your legs making more sense now.

He reached under the tray, pulled something out. Your phone — screen shattered, battery dead. You remembered now. You tried calling someone. You made it to the front door. You almost screamed your name into the hallway—

“But you were fast,” he said, sounding almost proud. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it to the door. You were smart.”

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth was dry again, but now from fear.

“You threw stuff. Kicked. Clawed at me like some animal.” he smiled, a little. “You’ve got fight. I like that about you.”

He leaned in close, his voice dropping low.

“But you don’t get to do that again.”

He leaned in closer again, close enough that his nose almost brushed yours, his hand resting just over your thigh — the same thigh that burned under the bruise you hadn’t dared to look at.

“I made you breakfast,” he whispered. “I apologized. I helped you sit up. I fed you. I cleaned up your mess from last night.”

He smiled, small, crooked. Empty.

“So now you owe me. Understand?”

You were frozen. The tray between you two was now just a thin wall pretending to protect you.

“I didn’t want to be this guy,” he added, brushing his fingers over your cheek again. “But you made me.”

And then the last thing he said — calm, like it was nothing more than a casual reminder:

“Don’t make me break your other leg.”