Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro lives in a quiet, plant-filled apartment in the rougher part of Chicago. She’s twenty-one, broke, vegan, and studying animal science at the local community college. She cries over rescue dogs, talks to her plants like they’re her best friends, and thinks violence is something that only happens in action movies. Her life is calm, predictable, and painfully ordinary.

Until he bleeds all over her floor.

Adriano Capone is violence in human form—shot, hunted, and very much the kind of man her sweet little heart should run from. He’s everything she hates: violent, dangerous, cruel in the way only a mafia prince can be.

He’s everything she’s sworn to avoid but he's hurt and Maddie has a soft spot for lost things.

So, she stitches him up.

And he stitches himself into her life.

He's the devil incarnate.

She's never even slapped someone.

But fate doesn't care about perfect matches...

It threw fire into the hands of a flower girl.

Preface

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental and unintentional.

This book, including all its content, is protected by copyright laws. All rights are reserved by the author, and no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or otherwise utilized in any form or by any means—whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the copyright holder. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of this work is prohibited and may result in legal action.

Copyright © 2025 by Jane Doe Writings. All rights reserved.

‿‿̩͙‿‿̩͙☠︎︎‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

TRIGGER WARNINGS!

The following book contains imagery that some readers may find distressing. This book contains multiple explicit scenes that graphically simulate sexual assault, although every encounter is fully consensual.

•Strong Language

•Graphic Violence and Gore

•Murder/Assassination

•Torture (both physical and psychological)

•Gun Violence

•Explicit Sexual Scenes

This is a dark romance, which means love is messy, pain is part of the journey, and healing comes at a cost. Please take care of yourself while reading, and know that it’s okay to step away if anything becomes too overwhelming.

Your safety and comfort matter more than any chapter.

‿‿̩͙‿‿̩͙☠︎︎‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

POINT OF VIEWS - POVs.

This book is written in dual point of view. That said, not every chapter will alternate perspectives. The POV shifts will happen organically, when it makes the most sense for the storyline. Sometimes you’ll stay with one character for several chapters if that’s where the emotional weight or action is strongest.

‿‿̩͙‿‿̩͙☠︎︎‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

UPDATES SCHEDULE

I post one new chapter every day, though there may occasionally be a skipped day here and there. Life can get a little chaotic, especially since I’m currently juggling this story with the demands of medical school (yes, it's as intense as it sounds).

Please know that I’m doing my very best to keep updates consistent while still balancing exams, hospital rotations, and everything else in between. Your patience and support mean the world to me, and every comment, like, and read keeps me motivated to keep going even on the tough days

‿‿̩͙‿‿̩͙☠︎︎‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you so much for choosing to read my story, truly, it means the world to me. There are so many incredible books out there, and the fact that you decided to spend time with mine is something I don’t take for granted.

If you enjoy the story, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback not only helps me grow as a writer but also keeps me company during those long, solitary hours when it’s just me, my coffee, and my characters emotionally ruining each other.

Thank you again for being here. I can’t wait to share more of this journey with you.

‿‿̩͙‿‿̩͙☠︎︎‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

With all my love,

Jane Doe Writings.

X O X O 💖

- Welcome to my fucked-up fairytale.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The air stank of gasoline and gunpowder. Concrete dust clung to my tongue. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm howled like a dying animal.

I ducked behind the hood of a burned-out Cadillac, reloading with blood-slick fingers. My breath came ragged, fire scraping up my ribs.

“Arturo?” I barked, twisting to look over my shoulder.

Nothing but a dying wheeze and then silence.

Fuck.

A shadow moved to my left. I popped out, squeezed the trigger... click.

Empty, it was fucking empty.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin kidding me.”

The last mag was dry. My knuckles were bleeding, my ribs were cracked. One eye was already swelling shut.

Across the alley, some masked asshole with a knife stepped forward, and I gave him a smile that tasted like blood.

“Hold this, stronzo,” I muttered and whipped the empty piece of metal straight at his face.

It hit him right in the eye and he let out a howl. And I did what any mobster would do in this situation if he wanted to survive—I ran.

I didn’t limp, didn’t crawl. I ran, my legs were buckling with every step because my body was wrecked. My shirt was torn open, sticky with blood. My shoulder was hanging by the grace of God or maybe just rage.

But adrenaline was still pumping, whispering in my ear, more like yelling... Move, motherfucker. Move.

I wasn't even supposed to be out here tonight. I just came to get a quick recon but nooo, I had to walk into an ambush like a dumbass.

There’d been some noise in this part of town and I came to sniff around, not step in a pile of shit.

Vince told me to bring more men. Said I’d need backup. I laughed in his face because I always thought overkill was for amateurs.

Now look at me, two dead soldiers, a Glock jamming in my hand, and some bastard car alarm wailing like it's mourning the whole scene.

So yeah, maybe next time I'll listen to the guy who triple-majored in war, murder, and paranoia.

Judging by the accent and designer boots of the men ordering around, he was definitely Italian. Probably that third-gen Napolitano knockoff crew trying to play big dog.

My boots pounded the pavement. Behind me, bullets chewed through the air. One hit my shoulder and burned like someone had poured lava into my veins. I didn’t stop. Pain is just noise for me. I’ve heard worse screams coming out of my basement.

I rounded the corner of a loading dock and came face to face with three of them. Black masks. Kevlar. Military stance. Not fucking amateurs.

“You boys lost?” I cracked my knuckles. “Wrong side of Chicago.”

One charged. I sidestepped, grabbed his arm, twisted till it cracked like a wishbone, and shoved his body in front of mine just as the bullets flew to use him as a meat shield. The other two hesitated just long enough for me to draw the knife from my boot and sink it into the second guy’s thigh, I pushed it deep and upward.

That was my last weapon. Funny. I never thought I’d live long enough to actually run out.

But then the third came in, his mask falling off as he slammed me against the steel wall. I headbutted him. He blinked and looked dazed for a second then smiled at me through bloodied teeth like a fucking lunatic. So I did it again harder this time. I felt his nose explode, bone slicing skin as blood sprayed across my face. He snarled, reeled back and drove a fist into my gut. I felt something tear and muffled a groan.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” I grunted, “Hit me like you mean it.”

He did. A left hook opened my eyebrow. Blood poured down into my eye. I stumbled and barely caught myself on the edge of a crate.

Arturo's body was crumpled ten feet away, his neck bent wrong. Dario was sprawled near the alley exit, his gun by his fingertips and his fingers were no longer moving.

Fuck, I'm gonna fucking die.

The masked man lunged forward, I caught his arm, and twisted it before slamming his face into my knee. I kept doing it until his mask cracked.

He tackled me into the ground. My head bounced off the concrete. A flash of white. Then red. I saw stars and then I saw my mother’s face briefly and thought, it's too early for that reunion.

He got on top of me, punching, and I jammed my thumb into his eye socket. He screamed and I threw him off. I scrambled to my knees, blood dripping from my mouth. My shoulder burned where the bullet wound sting.

I got up, slowly, wobbling, half-dead, half-mad.

He was crawling for his gun. I stomped on his hand and his bones snapped.

“Wrong city,” I whispered, kicking the piece away. “Wrong fucking guy.”

Then I drove the heel of my boot into his temple.

Five more.

I didn’t hear them at first but I felt them. Their boots slapped against the wet pavement, and I bolted across the alley.

My ribs were screaming at me, my shoulder throbbed and my legs barely worked but adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.

I took a hard right and launched myself up the back stairwell of some beat-up residential buildings. My vision was going dark but I climbed like the devil was nipping at my heels because he was.

Bullets sparked against the brick just as I hauled myself over the first landing.

“Fucking finally,” one of them growled below.

I kicked the third-floor window and the glass shattered around me, but I didn’t go in, I did it to distract them. I kept climbing.

I reached the stairwell door on the fifth floor, shouldered it open and staggered inside. I pulled myself through a hallway, it reeked of mold and decades of cigarette smoke.

Then I saw a door cracked open, Apartment 3C.

I stumbled toward it, wheezing.

Please be empty.

Please don’t have a dog.

Please don’t have a shotgun behind the couch.

I threw myself carefully against the door, trying not to leave blood behind and slid inside. I slammed the door shut in time, twisted the lock with shaking hands. Chain. Deadbolt. Even wedged a chair under the handle.

My blood smeared the hardwood floor. My vision pulsed black. I didn’t know how I was still breathing.

And then, I heard a small sound, like someone trying to suppress a scream.

The exact same noise Aurelia’s rubber duck makes when you squeeze it too hard.

I turned, slow.

Standing behind me was a woman, barefoot on the hardwood, in shorts that showed off long, tan legs and wearing a thin t-shirt clinging to soft curves.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open.

Frozen like a deer staring down headlights, except the headlights were me, and I looked like hell had spit me back out.

Fuck.

She blinked once.

Twice.

Then she inhaled.

About to scream.

I lunged.

It was not fast, not clean, it was just fucking desperation.

My hand clamped over her mouth as we stumbled backward. Her back hit the wall harder than intended. Too hard. My bad.

“Shh—” I breathed, barely above a whisper, as blood dripped from my jaw, my shoulder seizing. “Please. Don’t scream.”

Her entire body shivered with fear, her breath was hot against my palm, her chest rising too fast. And the next second, tears slid down her cheeks and landed onto my blood riddled hands that were pressed against her lips.

I have never seen a person cry so damn fast.

I held my free hand up, fingers spread like I was coaxing a stray cat.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, trying not to wheeze through broken ribs, “I just need five minutes. Just... five.”

Her eyes snapped to my face and damn, I could see the horror hit her like a truck.

There was a gash splitting my brow, leaking blood down the side of my face. My lip was busted wide open, nose probably fractured, and the bullet hole in my shirt was still trickling. Yeah, I looked like I crawled out of a warzone and into her living room because I did.

Her lips moved beneath my bloodied hand before she nodded but it was so slow and cautious, like I was a wild dog with a grenade in my mouth.

Good girl.

Then I heard them, boots stomping outside. They were just fucking too many men hunting me. They wanted me alive, had to. If they meant to kill me, they would've filled my body with bullets back on that fire escape.

I didn’t move and neither did she.

We just stood there in the glow of her shitty hallway light, me holding her and her staring up at me like she wasn’t sure if I was the devil or his next victim.

She had these big, amber eyes, they were wild and bright, and they looked almost golden in the dim light—like sunshine... Her curls were half covering her face, sticking to her cheek from my blood. Her skin had gone pale as chalk, and there was this tiny little vein on her neck, just under the jaw fluttering.

She looked so soft.

And I knew I was bleeding all over her floor, on her walls and I was definitely bleeding on her.

“Sorry about the mess,” I whispered, I didn’t even know if I meant the blood or the fact I brought hell to her doorstep, “Some really bad people wanna kill me,” I added, eyes barely holding hers, “I swear, I didn’t do anything wrong... this time.”

Her chest rose, and she blinked, tears clinging to her thick lashes.

My knees buckled.

Shit.

The adrenaline was burning off too fast now. The pain was catching up with me, my heartbeat was in my ears and my vision was tunnel shrinking fast.

I looked at her again. The last thing I remember seeing was those sun-soaked eyes, still staring, wide and filled with disbelief and fear.

I tried to smirk and tried to say something clever, "You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?" I barely got the words out or maybe, I didn't and they only echoed in my head because my body had other plans.

Everything tipped sideways.

And I collapsed, hard, right in her arms.

Lights out.

Curtain dropped.

Welcome to my fucked-up fairytale.

- A badly coded NPC

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

There was blood on my socks.

Blood. On. My. Socks.

Blood. On. My. Hello. Kitty. Socks.

And not just a little but a lot. It was dripping on my hardwood floors, smearing on my wall, and now soaking through the hem of my favorite bunny pajama shorts.

One second I was heating up oat milk for my tea, and the next he burst through my front door like a horror movie villain and slapped a hand over my mouth before I could even scream.

His hand was warm and heavy and covered in blood. So much blood. I hate blood. I hate blood.

So, I just stood there.

Frozen.

Like a badly coded NPC in a video game.

I could feel my heart thudding all the way up my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brain went into full panic-flip mode. I mentally started to recite my vegan food pyramid.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

He looked at me again and smiled? How can he smile? At this time?! Like this?! When he is injured and in so much pain.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?” he asked and his voice was weirdly hot. It was like raspy and deep and kind of rough in a way that made my knees wobble. Oh god, he was probably only talking like that because he was beat up and half delirious.

Priorities, Maddie!

Then his knees buckled and he just collapsed.

Right into me.

Like a full-grown bleeding tree.

I squeaked... like, actually squeaked, because he was heavy. And hot, like, body temperature hot. I could feel it through my shirt. That can’t be good, right? That’s bad, right? Doesn’t heat mean infection or internal bleeding or—

Breathe. Breathe, Maddie. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like yoga. You took that one class with Steph, remember? Before she bailed and said the instructor was giving cult leader vibes? Yes. Good.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, nope, nope, that’s too much blood. I think I’m going to throw up.

I gingerly slid down to the floor, knees hitting hardwood, and he sort of folded with me, like a very large, injured, possibly criminal origami swan.

He smelled like gasoline and burnt metal and something darker, like violence if violence had a scent. His blood is hot. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud... or think.

Jason would totally know what to do, he’s a surgeon, and also my best friend, and thank the stars he lives right across the hall but he’s not here, because his shift at the hospital doesn’t end for like another hour.

“Okay, Mister... dying man,” I whispered, trying very hard not to sound like I’m crying even though I definitely am crying, “you can’t die here. Not on my floor. My landlord already hates me and this would just really push things over the edge.”

I fumbled for my phone but remembered that it was charging in the kitchen. Ten feet away. A lifetime. I glanced at the door, still chained and bolted, and then at him... this stranger with blood everywhere and bruises already blooming across his face and, oh, his lashes are really long.

Why am I noticing that right now?

I crawled toward the kitchen, whispering apologies with every creak of the floorboards. “I’m just going to get my phone,” I mumbled over my shoulder, in case he woke up mid-coma and gets the wrong idea, “and maybe a towel. Or twelve.”

My knees were shaking. I slipped once on the bloody wood and let out a weird little scream, it was like half mouse, half dying balloon. When I finally reached the counter and grabbed my phone, my hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I should call 911.

Right?

No. Big fat no. Because the moment I say “a man broke in and passed out from blood loss,” I become an accessory to whatever criminal nonsense this is. And I can't get into trouble, I can't, I'm not made for trouble. I’m not going down as the girl who helped hide a wanted felon. Or a hitman. Nope.

But I can’t just leave him here.

He said, “Please.”

He asked me not to scream, and he said please. Blood, tattoos, bruises and split skin, yes, but also a crease between his brows. A quiver in his fingers. A human. A hurting one.

And I knew that feeling. Of hurt. Of fear. Of being chased by monsters.

I wiped my palms on my thighs, which did nothing because my pajama shorts were bloody too. I tiptoed back into the room, and shared at his chest, he was breathing.

“Okay,” I said to the universe, to God, to the hot dying man on my floor, “okay, Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro, you got a B+ in first aid. You can do this.”

I scrambled to grab the first aid kit from the closet because, yes, I do keep it fully stocked, thank you very much. Some girls collect shoes. I collect trauma gauze. You never know when your rescue possum might slice a toe.

But halfway back across the room, arms full of peroxide and gauze and that one antibiotic cream that smells like sour lemons, he shifted. Twitched, really and then groaned.

“...No hospitals...” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice was so pain filled, “Please... no hospitals... they’ll find us... kill us...”

I froze.

The peroxide slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a thunk.

Kill us?

I blinked.

Kill us?

And then I panicked.

Why us?

I think he means, they might kill him, not me, right? Right?!

My chest squeezed and my hands went cold. My lungs forgot how to breathe properly, the way they do when I think about car crashes or open flames or my father’s face when he came home from fights that I wasn’t supposed to ask about.

He was still mumbling under his breath. I inched back until my shoulders hit the kitchen counter, arms hugging the first aid kit to my chest.

“They,” I whispered, “Who’s they? What is this? Why are men chasing you? Why did you have to pick my apartment? I live alone. I have a cat. His name is Flan. He hides in the toaster box when strangers knock. He can’t handle this either!”

I took a breath, gathered all the courage I could and crawled toward him again. Slower this time, like I would with a wounded dog.

“No hospitals,” I whispered, repeating his words like a promise. “Okay. Fine. No hospitals. But I am helping you. That’s non-negotiable.”

I peeled his shirt off as gently as I could. It was soaked in blood. His skin underneath was hot to the touch, too hot. Infection was coming, I could feel it. And I might hate violence, and I might be scared out of my flipping mind, but I know what sepsis looks like. And this man wasn’t dying in my apartment, not on my watch, not if I could stop it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair back, and got to work.

“You’re lucky, mister, that I know how to thread a needle. My mom used to say every woman should know how to cook, sew, and stitch. I only ever got good at one of those, and it wasn’t sewing. Sorry in advance if this hurts. Deep breaths, Maddie, deep breaths... we can panic later.”

His whole chest was filled with cuts, and smudged blood. A bullet wound in his shoulder, swollen and ugly. I could see where it grazed the flesh, but not deep enough to be fatal. Still, infection, blood loss, shock... all real risks.

I chewed my lip. “Mama would tell me to pour sugar on it,” I said, half to myself, half to him, “but I think you need saline and prayers more than kitchen remedies right now.”

I cleaned, stitched, bandaged. My hands shook but I did it. Clean, cut, compress. Just like Papa's old accident, except infinitely worse.

I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d seen wounded animals look like this. Cornered, bleeding, terrified. And he was human, yes but there was something wild in his face even when he was unconscious. Like a wolf, maybe. Something that didn’t belong in the middle of my tiny Chicago apartment surrounded by my plants and tea towels and my faint scent of lavender and lemongrass.

“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered, “or what you’re running from... but I hope... I hope you make it.”

I sat back on my heels. The towels were soaked red. The bandages were holding. He hadn’t stirred.

Somehow, against all logic, all panic, all everything, I’d managed to keep him alive until Jason gets here.

Just hold on, stranger. Just hang in there for a little longer. Jason will know what to do. He has fancy tools and calm hands and degrees and stuff. I’m just a girl with old sewing needles, way too many herbal teas, and exactly zero experience saving strangers from... whatever this is.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was going wild. I could feel it thudding everywhere, in my throat, in my fingertips, in my toes.

“You’re okay,” I whispered to myself, “You’re okay. He’s okay. Jason will be home soon. And I didn’t faint. That’s already a win.”

I gave a nervous, watery laugh.

Then I leaned down, gently, just to listen closer to his breathing. It was faint but it was still there.

- Signs someone is about to die in your bed

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Jason. Jason should be home by now.

I tore off the gloves, wiped my hands on a towel that already looked like a crime scene, and sprinted out the door in socks, no coat, no keys, just nerves and adrenaline.

I banged on Jason's door, looking around to see if the bad people were still here, looking to kill him and now... me.

“Jason!” I pounded on his door again, “Jason, please be home, please be home, please—”

The lock clicked.

His tired, just-got-off-a-26-hour-shift face peeked out, “Maddie? What—”

“Oh thank God, you’re here.” I barreled into his apartment without permission and turned around to grab his arm. “You have to come with me. Now. Please. It’s an emergency. A man. Bleeding. A lot of bleeding. My floor is ruined. His lung might be too. Maybe even his spleen. Can spleens bleed? I think they can.”

He blinked, “Wait, what? What man? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you—?”

“No, no, not me, I’m fine! I mean, I’m not fine, I think I’ve been in shock for the past hour, but I’m not the one dying on my rug, okay?” I tugged harder. “He broke in and locked the door. He was already bleeding and then he just collapsed. I patched him up but I don’t know what I’m doing! Well, I do know some things, because of Mamãe and Papai but this is—this is way above me.”

Jason had already grabbed his emergency bag because he’s the kind of person who has an emergency bag and was slipping on shoes.

“You let a bleeding man stay in your apartment?” he asked, jogging beside me as we stepped out of his apartment and ran to mine.

“He passed out on my floor, Jason! What was I supposed to do? Say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Mysterious Blood Loss Man, please die elsewhere’? I’m vegan. I can’t even kill a mosquito on purpose!”

We reached my door and I flung it open, “Please just fix him, okay? He’s still breathing. And I think I traumatized him trying to clean the wound because—”

He was dead?

I froze.

Jason stopped behind me.

The man still lay just where I left him. My makeshift bandages were still wrapped. There was a faint rise and fall of his chest. He was alive.

I let out a breath and whispered, “See? I told you.”

Jason blinked at the blood everywhere. “Jesus Christ, Maddie.”

I bit my lip, voice wobbling as I knelt back beside the stranger. “Can you help him? Please, Jason. Just… don’t ask questions right now. Just help him.”

Jason didn’t ask another word. He was already snapping on gloves. The moment he peeled back my last bandage, a fresh rush of red bubbled up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, he’s still bleeding. I thought I tied it right, I swear I tied it right. I mean, I double-knotted it like shoelaces and everything, does blood not listen to knots?”

Jason grunted, “You did okay. You slowed it. But the cut’s deep. He’s lucky he didn’t nick the lung.”

“I knew it looked lung-ish!” I clutched the hem of my bloodied pajama shirt, “Do lungs grow back? I mean, I know liver does but I don’t think—oh God. He’s gonna die and it’s gonna be my fault and he didn’t even ask to be here and what if—”

“Maddie.” Jason looked up for half a second, “Inhale. Exhale. Sit down or you’re going to faint on me.”

I obeyed so fast I landed on the floor with a thump. My knees hit the rug and I curled them to my chest like a human stress ball, “I didn’t even ask his name. He could be a Bob. Or a Kevin. He doesn’t look like a Kevin, though. He looks more like... I don't know, someone handsome. With cheekbones.”

Jason didn’t respond. He was focused on stitching. The kind of stitching I couldn’t do. Not on someone’s chest.

My heart twisted again when I saw the way the man’s face flinched in his sleep. Aw, he was in pain.

I didn’t know why, but something in me whispered he was a good guy.

Jason looked up at me, “Maddie. Is this guy in trouble?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “He just showed up in my apartment! Bleeding! Dying! And now he’s saying things that sound like he has enemies who—who kill people who go to the hospital, and oh my God, I knew this was going to be one of those days where I should’ve stayed in bed!”

Jason didn’t say anything for a full three seconds. His eyes flicked from the half-conscious man on the rug to me and back again.

“I know, I know what you’re gonna say,” I rushed out, waving my arms around, “Call the police, Maddie. Call an ambulance, Maddie. But no! Because—because he said no hospitals and I know it was mumbly and delirious but it was also really intense and you should’ve seen his face. He was serious and scary. Like, the kind of scary you don’t fake unless you’re a really good actor.”

Jason sighed. “Maddie…”

“No, listen!” I clutched his arm, “What if—what if he’s not a bad guy? What if he’s one of the good guys? Like—like a spy. Or—or a secret agent. Or someone running from, I don’t know, dangerous people with helicopters. You know I have an overactive imagination, but what if it’s right this time?”

“He had a bullet in him, Maddie.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean he shot anyone!” I countered, “That proves that he was the one being chased. Maybe he saved someone. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Jason rubbed his face.

“Okay. So. I have a plan.” I clapped once. “We move him to the bed. I’ll make chamomile compresses. You already did the stitching, you’re amazing. I’ll give him some painkillers—nothing super strong, just the kind I use when I drop kettlebells on my toes. You can handle the prescriptions for infection and whatever else. And I’ll watch him! No one will know. No cops. No questions. Just quiet, peaceful, low-crime-zone healing.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re going to drag a bullet-ridden stranger into your bed and pretend everything’s normal.”

“Obviously. New sheets. Clean pillowcases. He needs it more than me right now, Jay.”

Jason shook his head in disbelief but stood, “You are crazy, Maddie.”

“Crazy and helpful,” I chirped, already flinging open the linen closet for towels. “Now help me carry him.”

Between the two of us, we managed to lift the man onto the bed. He was heavy because he had strong, solid, muscle-everywhere. He groaned once when Jason shifted his shoulder, and I immediately apologized like I’d stepped on his foot.

“Sorry! Sorry! You’re doing great. So brave. So unconscious. We love that for you.”

We got him on the bed, propped up his torso with a pillow, and Jason adjusted the bandages again.

“I’ll give him some acetaminophen,” I said. “And maybe some valerian root, because that’s good for calming nerves and I’m pretty sure he has some.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

“Oh, I already had two lavender capsules,” I said, “And some Rescue Remedy while I was waiting for you to come home. I might also start crying in the next ten minutes, but I’m emotionally versatile.”

When Jason was done, he stood and started packing up, “I’m trusting you, Maddie.”

“You can always trust me. I babysit kittens.”

“Call me if anything goes sideways, alright?”

“Will do!” I chirped, way too peppy for someone standing in blood-soaked socks.

Jason gave me one last warning look, before stepping out, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” I muttered to the door after it clicked shut behind him. “I already let a bleeding, beautiful man with murder-eyes and a bullet hole into my living room. I’m doomed. I’m so doomed.”

I turned around slowly, taking it all in: blood smeared across the floor, the couch, me. My favorite yellow throw pillow was soaked. The coffee table looked like the surgeon's table.

My apartment looked like I sacrificed a goat in the name of Satan.

And then I got to work because if I didn’t, I was pretty sure I’d just sit down and cry.

I tossed anything soaked in his blood straight into garbage bags, trying not to think about how incredibly suspicious it all looked. Like, if anyone decided to peek inside, I'd be screwed.

Once the floors were scrubbed, the couch wiped down, and the throw pillows mourned and replaced, I stumbled to the bathroom. I peeled off my ruined clothes, dumped them straight into a plastic bag, and stepped into the shower.

The water hit me and for a second, I just stood there, forehead against the tile. I watched his blood swirl down the drain off my body.

When I was clean, I pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I walked back to my bedroom.

I peeked at the stranger, his long lashes, his chest rising and falling. I sat on the floor beside the bed and tucked the covers up around him.

“No hospitals,” I whispered. “No cops. No questions.”

Then because I couldn't help myself, I added, “But if you are an assassin or something, please don’t kill me when you wake up. I make really good pancakes. Vegan. Banana oat. I'll make them for you.”

I couldn’t sleep.

Of course I couldn’t sleep. There was a strange, injured, unconscious, bleeding man in my bed.

Well, not bleeding now, exactly. More like... healing. His breathing was more even. Less rattly. He hadn’t made a sound in the past hour, which was either a really good thing or a really, really bad one, but I decided not to spiral about that.

I’d already used up my spiral quota when I googled “signs someone is about to die in your bed” and then had to delete my search history just in case the FBI thought I was planning something.

Which I wasn’t, obviously.

Anyway.

I sat in my armchair with my knees pulled up to my chest, a mug of chamomile tea clutched in my hands, and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

I couldn’t help but whisper to him now and then. It was silly, I know. He couldn’t hear me but I had a habit of talking too much.

“I don’t like the idea of someone dying alone. Especially not on a cold night. Especially not when I could do something, even if it’s just... wrapping towels around them and staying by their side.”

I set the mug down and stood slowly, creeping toward him. The bandages were still secure, there was no new blood. His lips weren’t as pale anymore, and his forehead wasn’t as clammy as before. I pressed the back of my hand gently to his cheek, it was warm. Not feverish, just warm.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure. “You’re in a safe place. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

I stood there for a while, watching him breathe.

I bit my lip, then reached over and gently adjusted the blanket on his chest and sat down on the floor beside the bed.

“If you wake up and try to kill me, I hope you at least feel a little bad about it,” I whispered.

I was only going to rest my eyes. Just for a second.

I swear, I really did mean to stay awake but there I was, slouched sideways by my bed, head lolling dangerously close to my shoulder, still wrapped up in my favorite yellow throw blanket, the one with the tiny embroidered suns.

The last thing I remember was trying to tell him a story about how my neighbor’s cat broke into my pantry and ate all my cereal, and how I cried for three days because it was the good kind with the cinnamon clusters and I didn't have any money to buy new ones but halfway through explaining, my head dipped forward.

My cheek landed on the mattress near his arm.

I was too tired to move.

The sheets still smelled faintly of antiseptic and chamomile. The soft hush of his breathing rose and fell beside me. I couldn’t even open my eyes again. I think I mumbled something—I don’t know what. Maybe “don’t die.” Maybe “I put your blood-stained shirt in with my good towels.”

Either way, I was out cold in seconds.

Curled up beside a man I should probably be terrified of.

Wrapped in yellow cotton sunshine.