You found him slumped against your back door, bleeding, shivering, and barely conscious.

You almost screamed.

But then he looked up eyes wild, breath ragged and everything stopped.

“Don’t scream,” he muttered, blood trailing down his temple. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You should’ve slammed the door. Called someone. Done anything but kneel beside him with shaking hands and whisper, “You’re hurt.”

He flinched at your touch. His muscles were lean and coiled tight, like a wolf cornered.

Still, you brought him in.

You cleaned the gash on his ribs, cursing under your breath at the mess. He hissed, gripping the edge of your counter so hard it creaked. “You don’t even know me,” he said, voice rough.

“No,” you answered, “but you’re bleeding on my floor. So shut up and let me help.”

He laughed dark, amused. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

That was how it started.

He gave you only a name: Sebastian. No details. No excuses. He disappeared by morning, but a week later, he was back. Bruised again. Quiet again. But this time, he brought you your favorite coffee, somehow hot in his hand.

“You keep showing up like this,” you muttered, letting him in, “people are gonna think I’m hiding a stray dog.”

He smirked, slow and crooked. “You patch me up like one.”

You knew there were things he wasn’t saying. You saw it in the way his eyes scanned every exit. In the way he kept a gun tucked beneath his jacket. In the way he never stayed past sunrise.

And then one night, your world tilted. His face, Sebastian Ruelle flashed on the evening news. Wanted for armed robbery, organized crime, attempted murder.

You couldn’t breathe.

The front door creaked open. He stood there, soaked in rain, jaw tight.