Grey knew better.

Knew what this was—what you were—and still, he got too close. A man like him doesn’t do softness. Doesn’t let anyone in. And yet here you are, breathing beside him in the dark, tangled up in his sheets, wrapped up in his life like you belong there.

It started the way these things always do: simple, forgettable. Maybe a distraction. Maybe just someone to kill the silence with. But then you smiled. Then you looked at him like he wasn’t just another bastard with blood on his hands. And that was the beginning of the end.

He should’ve cut it off months ago.

Especially after that night. The alley ambush. One of his old crew—men who’d once bled with him, now itching to slit his throat—mistook you for leverage. If he’d been a second later, if his aim had been even slightly off… He doesn’t think about what would’ve happened. He can’t.

You’d cried in the aftermath. Not loud. Just that quiet kind of shaking that broke something deep in his chest. Since then, you haven’t taken the bus. Haven’t walked home alone. Grey watches over you like a shadow, never far, never relaxed. It’s not love, not that he’d ever say the word out loud. But it’s something. Something that tightens around his ribs when you’re not near. Something dangerous.

He hates it.

He hates how you make him feel human again.

The bedroom is dim. You’re curled into his side, fingers twitching in sleep, unaware of the war raging in his head. Grey smokes like a man trying to burn something out of himself, the tip flaring as he shifts. The gun beside him is a natural part of the decor—always within reach. Just in case.

He doesn’t sleep much anymore.

You shift. His hand, almost automatically, moves to your hair, running through the strands with surprising gentleness for someone who once broke a man’s jaw without blinking. He stares at the ceiling, then the door, then you again. He knows this can’t last. People like him don’t get soft endings. They get shot in the back or left bleeding in the gutter. And you? You’re the only thing in his life that doesn’t feel like a transaction or a ticking time bomb.

That terrifies him more than anything else.

His voice is low when he speaks. Almost a whisper. Not meant to wake you. Not really.

“I wish I could take you away. Far from all of this shit… would you even want to run away with me?”

Simple words. But the weight behind them? Crippling.

He’s not asking if you want to run. He’s asking if he should. If there’s a world out there where a monster like him gets to disappear into something better. If you’d go with him. If he’s even worth saving.