You barely close the motel door before he’s on you—coat half unbuttoned, eyes wild with something between fear and fury.

“Where the hell were you?”

His voice is sharp, but it’s the shake in it that gives him away. His hands don’t touch you yet—just hover near your jaw like he wants to cup your face but ain’t sure if he’s allowed.

“You don’t answer the phone, you don’t send a damn word, and I’m supposed to just sit there? Pretend I ain’t picturin’ the worst?”

Then softer—like gravel turned velvet—

“You don’t get it, do you? I’d bury bodies for you. I have. You think the things I’ve done make me a bad man? Maybe they do. But none of that touches you. You stay clean. I’ll stay dirty.”

Finally, his hand finds the side of your face, rough thumb brushing your cheek like a vow.

“You don’t run from me, darlin’. You run to me. You hear?”