- Devil into her home.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

There’s a spoon in my mouth.

A fucking spoon.

Warm, salty liquid slid down my throat before I could fight it, and by the time my brain caught up, she was already loading up the next hit like I was some half-dead pigeon she scooped off the street.

She made a soft sound, she sounded pleased, like feeding me soup was the highlight of her goddamn week.

Vincenzo, I needed my brother, Vincenzo.

“You’re awake again!” she chirped, and then made a face, “Well, Sort of. Ish. That’s okay. You don’t have to be all the way awake. I’ve got soup.”

What the fuck is happening?

My eyes dragged open, everything was bright, like the inside of a greenhouse had swallowed me whole. There were plants on every surface, hanging from the ceiling, climbing shelves.

And her.

She looked like springtime.

She was wearing an oversized pink T-shirt, hair in a lazy braid. No makeup, no shoes, just this barefoot, wide-eyed girl with the voice of a cartoon character.

God help me.

“Flan didn’t like the smell,” she said conversationally as she dipped the spoon again, “But she never does. She’s so dramatic. You’d think I tried to poison her with lentils or something.”

Another spoonful. She held it up to my lips like she was feeding a baby bird.

I wanted to curse, I wanted to tell her to get me a fucking cell phone so I can call my fucking brother and get the fuck out of here and off the drugs she had been feeding me but I was floating. My limbs weighed a thousand pounds and my head was made of smoke.

Wait, was she some psycho?

“You’re doing so good,” she cooked like she was talking to a baby. “I mean, your eyes are open now and your breathing’s steadier. Yesterday you were groaning and twitching, which the doctors said is a good sign.”

Soup again. I didn’t even taste it, it was something vaguely herbal, warm and had too much oregano.

She pushed a stool closer to the bed and sat down, still holding the bowl.

I watched her from the corner of my eye because I couldn’t do much else. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move without feeling like my stitches were going to tear wide open and spill my guts across her nice little bedspread.

“My cat uses a walker,” she said brightly, like that was normal. “It’s this little custom thing I found on Etsy. She’s got wheels on her back legs now. Zooms around like a little sausage on rollerblades.”

I blinked slowly.

What.

“She was abused. Her previous owner broke her spine and left her in a dumpster. Can you believe that?” her face twisted with anger, like the cruelty still hurt her to remember. “She was barely alive when I found her. All matted and shaking and full of fleas but we fixed her up. Didn’t we, Flan?”

Somewhere in the room, the cat meowed. A weak, croaky little sound.

Jesus Christ.

“She has anxiety,” Maddie added, completely serious. “But so do I, so we understand each other. Sometimes we both hide under the couch when there’s thunder.”

I would’ve laughed if I could. Instead, a strange noise came out of me, some half-breath, half-choke that made her freeze.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did you just make a sound?”

She leaned forward, all excitement and hope and way-too-close. Her face was inches from mine, eyes bright, lips parted.

Fuck.

Even in my barely living, drug-fogged state, I noticed her lips.

Full. Pink. A little chapped. Probably tasted like soup and some organic lip balm called ‘Coconut Cloud’ or ‘Peaceful Bee’ or some shit.

She smelled like rosemary and laundry.

She was still talking, “You must be so uncomfortable. Do you want water? Blink twice for yes. Or... no, wait. That’s for Morse code. Do you even know Morse code?”

God help me, I couldn’t look away.

“Anyway,” she went on, oblivious, “I named her Flan because I thought she’d be sweet and wobbly. Turns out she’s a tyrant. Hates everyone except me. She clawed my boyfriend so hard he needed stitches.”

Boyfriend?

Where the fuck is the boyfriend? Maybe, he'd be of some help.

Soup again. She didn’t even wait for permission. Just nudged it at my lips with a cheerful, “Open up, you handsome menace.”

I’d kill a man for calling me that.

But from her lips, it felt less like mockery and more like a nickname you give a raccoon who keeps breaking into your kitchen.

Menace.

Fuck.

She stirred the soup again, blowing on the spoon, and watching me like she was waiting for a sign that I’d snap, spit, bite or do anything.

But I just laid there. Helpless. Drugged out of my fucking skull.

And all I could think was:

If anyone finds out about this, I’ll have to kill them.

And maybe myself.

She smiled again, so sweet, so proud of herself.

“I knew you were a fighter.”

Lady, you have no idea.

How can someone with eyes that soft have no fucking survival instinct?

She didn’t know me, she didn’t know what I’d done. What I’d do the second I could stand again. She didn't know my name. She didn’t hear the way people said “Capone” like it was a death sentence.

All she saw was a broken man in her bed.

Who was torn open and she stitched him shut.

Bruised, bleeding, breathing.

A stranger.

And she decided to save me.

Spoon. Smile. Soup. Sunshine.

I could’ve killed her.

And yet...

She brushed a wild strand of hair behind her ear and scooped another spoonful, humming under her breath, some light, stupid melody I couldn’t place.

“There we go,” she murmured, nudging the spoon toward me again. “Almost done. And you didn’t bite me once. That’s progress.”

I opened my mouth, more out of muscle memory than agreement, and let her feed me again.

Jesus. This was pathetic.

I should be out there, hunting those bastards. Tearing through the city like vengeance made of bone and teeth.

I should be bleeding them.

But instead I was lying here in some cracked-sink apartment that smelled like plants and vanilla soy candles, high on painkillers or some other shit, and letting a barefoot girl with cat scratches on her arms feed me soup like a feral animal she’d decided to rehabilitate.

She stirred the spoon absently, “You know, I never liked hospitals. Too clean. Too... white and the lights buzz. You ever notice that? That awful fluorescent buzzing sound? Ugh.”

No. I hadn’t because I’m usually the one sending people to hospitals.

“I figured if I took you in, you’d either die quietly or wake up and strangle me.” She smiled at that like it was a joke. “So far, so good.”

My mouth twitched.

She caught it, her eyes lit up like I’d given her a gold medal.

“Oh my God. Was that a smile?” she gasped, “You can smile. It’s more of a pain-grimace, but I’ll take it. Smiling means you’ve got a heart in there somewhere. And maybe you’re not planning to murder me in my sleep.”

She didn’t shut up. That was the thing. She kept talking and she never stopped, not for air, not for logic, not for mercy.

“There’s this raccoon that comes to my fire escape sometimes. I named him Remy, after the rat in Ratatouille? Except Remy’s kind of a jerk. He hisses at Flan. She tries to hiss back, but her lungs are weird. So it’s more like a wheeze.”

I blinked at her. How did one person have so many stories? And why were they all so... bizarre?

“You should meet my neighbor. She’s ninety-three and thinks I’m a witch. Keeps giving me garlic and muttering prayers in Spanish. She means well. I think.”

I stared at her.

So soft. So warm.

So fucking unreal.

And she sure as fuck didn’t belong anywhere near me.

“I mean, okay, full disclosure, you look a little dangerous, I think it's because of the tattoos,” she said in this way-too-cheerful voice, like she was commenting on the weather or the price of avocados, “Not judging! I swear, I’m not that kind of person. I love tattoos. Love them. Very expressive. Very artsy. Yours are super intense, though. Again, not judging! It’s just, I have this thing about violence. I hate it. I can’t handle it. It makes me all clammy and panicky and sick to my stomach, and I’ve seen what violent people can do, and it’s horrible, and I just… really hope you’re not one of those people. You know? The ones who hurt people for fun or like, because they feel powerful or whatever. God, I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous. You probably noticed. Please don’t be evil.”

She inhaled like she’d just completed a 5k.

Jesus Christ.

If she knew even one thing about me, she’d have thrown herself off the fire escape as soon as I bled onto her perfect, sunshine-colored blankets.

Please don’t be evil? Sweetheart, I invented evil.

Hell, I didn’t just take pleasure in it. I was good at it. Violence was the only thing I’d ever been born for. Some men were made to build, to teach, to love. I was made to crack bones and empty magazines into kneecaps.

I wanted to tilt my head, smirk just enough to make her second-guess herself, and ask her, What if I am one of those bad people, Sunshine? What then?

I wanted to watch the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, hear her breath stutter just a little with fear.

Because fear was easy, fear was predictable, fear, I understood.

But her?

She was a fucking anomaly, a glitch in the system.

And she was talking so fast I was starting to think she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore.

“I mean, you can’t be a bad guy,” she rambled, shifting the bowl in her hands, “Because bad guys don’t say ‘please’ when they break into someone’s house all bloody and terrifying.”

She was trying to convince herself.

That’s what this was.

She wanted to believe I wasn’t the monster lurking in the dark. That I was just some unfortunate soul who stumbled into her little nest of sunshine and chamomile like I wasn’t soaked in the sins of a thousand men.

“Anyway,” she muttered. “I hope you’re not evil. That’d really suck.”

She set the bowl down and gently wiped the corner of my mouth with a towel. Her fingers brushed my jaw.

“Get some rest,” she whispered, all sunshine and lavender and fucking suicide. “You’re safe here.”

Safe.

I would’ve laughed if my lungs weren’t cracked glass.

Because somewhere between the drugs and the bleeding and the absurdity of this moment like her ridiculous soup and her crippled cat and her stories about raccoons, I realized something.

She’d brought the devil into her home.

And she was smiling at it.

- SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

The thing about puppies is that they don’t care if you’ve had a terrible week or if your life is a little bit of a mess. They just bounce. All ears and paws and clumsy joy, like they were born with tiny trampolines in their bones.

“Okay, Bean, hold still. Nope! Nope, that’s my braid, Bean, please—”

I let out a squeaky laugh as the golden retriever puppy squirmed against the towel I’d wrapped around him, licking my chin.

“You’re making this very hard,” I told him, trying to wipe off the crust of gunk near his eye. “You know, some dogs are actually grateful when you clean them.”

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and lavender soap, which I liked because it reminded me of my mom’s kitchen after she’d bleach the floors and light one of those flower-scented candles back in Brazil.

Dr. Salazar was in the back, and I was technically just supposed to be sorting the food stock and prepping exam rooms, but when Nurse Kate had poked her head out and said, “You good with eye drops?” I might have accidentally volunteered to help.

“You have the gentlest hands,” she’d said.

That had made my whole month.

So now I was trying to convince Bean that saline was not the enemy and also that my braids weren't edible, and everything was going fine, just fine, until—

“Maddie.”

The voice behind me made my stomach drop. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

I turned and Carlos stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his EMT jacket, sunglasses still perched on his head even though we were indoors. His expression was flat and annoyed. I couldn't tell.

“Oh,” I said, wiping my hands on the towel and giving him a bright smile, “Hi! what are you doing here? Did you need me? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped further into the room, eyes trailing over the cluttered counter, the open bottle of eye drops, the clumsy sprawl of Bean across my arms.

“Busy?” he asked.

“I—I mean, not really!” I said, “I was just helping with this little guy’s eye.”

I let out a laugh and tried to hand Bean off to the nearest empty basket, which he promptly leapt out of like a very fuzzy ninja.

“Can we talk?” he asked, already turning toward the hallway without waiting for my answer.

“Oh. Um. Yes! Definitely. I just—let me clean this up, and I’ll—"

“I said now, Maddie.”

My fingers froze on the dropped towel. The back of my neck flushed hot.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Yeah. Okay.”

I followed him into the staff corridor. The walls back here were narrower, the lights buzzed overhead, and I suddenly hated the way my sneakers squeaked on the tile.

Carlos stopped at the end of the hallway near the water cooler, arms crossed again. That stance always made me feel small, even when he said he didn’t mean anything by it.

“I came by your apartment just now,” he said, voice even.

I blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah. You weren’t home.”

“Oh. I was here. They needed extra hands for bath day. All the big dogs got fleas. And then one of the bunnies escaped—”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped.

I took a step back, heart stuttering. His voice rattled something deep inside me. It wasn’t just him shouting. It was glass shattering. My mother's screams. My father’s face twisted in pain.

Suddenly I was a child again, hiding in the hallway closet, knees to my chest, praying they wouldn’t find me.

It was only yelling now but my body didn’t know the difference.

My throat tightened. My vision blurred. I hated how fast I shrank.

He stepped closer, his shadow eating up the hallway light. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My fingers curled into the hem of my scrub top. “Tell you what?”

His eyes narrowed, “Why that man was still in your apartment.”

I froze.

“And not just him, Jason was there too,” he went on, “Do you know what it felt like to go to my girlfriend’s place and find not one but two random guys there?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My lungs forgot how to breathe for a second.

“That man was literally bleeding to death and I couldn't just leave him on the floor.”

“We already got him checked at the clinic, he should’ve been gone the next fucking day! You let him stay?” he snapped, “You let a strange guy just stay in your apartment? While you’re alone?”

I shrank back more, clutching the clipboard tighter to my chest. “He’s injured. He’s not even conscious most of the time because of the sedatives and Jason’s my neighbor. He’s just helping. He’s very safe. He's a doctor and he's married.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Carlos hissed. “You’re defending them. You’re standing here and defending the fact that you’re playing nurse to some injured criminal—”

“He’s not a criminal!” I blurted, before I could stop myself. Then instantly regretted raising my voice, “I mean, I don’t know that he is, but I don’t know that he isn’t, either, but that’s not the point! The point is I just wanted to help! That’s all!”

“You let him stay,” he repeated. “That’s what point. I entertain your habit of bringing every other injured stray into your home but this time you've gone too far. He’s not a kitten. He’s a grown man.”

“I didn't mean to upsrt you. I thought if I just kept him stable until he could leave, and Jason said it’d be fine, and you’re always so busy, I didn’t want to be a problem—”

“I’m your boyfriend, Maddie!” His voice echoed down the hall, “You don’t hide things from me. You don’t lie. And you sure as fuck don’t let two men make themselves comfortable in your bed when I’m not there.”

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my clipboard.

“They’re not in my bed,” I whispered. “I—I’ve been sleeping on the floor.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “This is so messed up. Do you even realize how sketchy this all looks?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I do. I do realize. I really, really do. But I was just, he was hurt. That’s all it was. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve called.”

He looked at me for a long second. Then two. His mouth was hard.

And then, he said, “Get rid of him.”

My heart dropped.

“W-what?”

“You heard me. Tell him to leave or throw him out, I don't care.”

“Carlos, I—he can’t even walk yet. Dr. Lane said he needs another two days, at least.”

“I don’t care. You want to prove you respect me? You want me to trust you again?” his voice dropped low and turned almost threatening, “You want me to help you out next semester?! Then get him the fuck out.”

I couldn’t speak.

I could only nod.

Because Carlos had been helping with my semester fees and sometimes even groceries, I kept reminding myself he had a kind heart. He really did. He just... let his temper get the better of him sometimes. And he was jealous. I guess I would be too, if he were living with some injured girl, even if it was all innocent.

I watched him turn and walk away, his footsteps echoing off the clinic walls. My throat tightened. I blinked up at the ceiling, forcing the tears to stay right where they were.

Maybe once the sedatives wear off, I’ll ask him about his family, just gently, so I can call them. They’ll want to know he’s okay, maybe they’re worried sick. Or... maybe they don’t even know he’s hurt. Either way, someone should be there for him. Someone who really knows him.

I can't just throw him out.

I won't.

𓎢𓎠𓎟𖦁‎𓎟𓎠𓎡

The smell of oat milk and cinnamon wafted from the saucepan as I swayed in my fluffy alpaca socks.

I was making him something warm because when you’ve got a half-dead man in your bed and nothing in your fridge but tofu, oat milk, and questionable kale, you get creative.

Hence, oat-milk-cinnamon-soup. Or porridge. Or... potion. I didn’t know what to name it.

Flan sat on the kitchen counter in his little diaper, staring at me like I was the reason his ancestors died. I booped his nose.

"Don’t judge me, Flan," I said, reaching for my phone with one hand while the other kept whisking because I wanted to check the recipe.

I balanced the phone on the edge of the spice rack and turned around to grab the cinnamon again.

And then I heard it.

SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

I froze.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

I turned just in time to see my phone sliding face-first into the bubbling oat-milk concoction.

For a second, I just stared. As if my eyeballs alone could will time to rewind.

Then I shrieked like I’d been stabbed.

I dove for it without even thinking, burning my fingers on the edge of the pot and fishing it out like it was a drowning toddler. I wrapped it in a dishtowel, pressed all the buttons. Screen black. No buzz. Nothing. Just silence.

Pure, devastating, tech-death silence.

"NO, NO, YOU CAN'T DIE—I still owe on you!" I wailed.

"Okay, okay, rice. People put it in rice, right? I don’t have rice. I have quinoa. Does quinoa work?! Do you work, quinoa?!"

I didn’t have money for a new phone.

I had money for maybe...a MetroCard. A banana. Possibly a half-used chapstick from the dollar store but a new phone? No. Not after I spent everything I had on antiseptic supplies, antibiotics, extra sheets (because blood), medical tape, a mini humidifier to keep the air moist for his healing lungs, God, Maddie, why are you like this?!

"This is why I’m broke," I told Flan, "And now I can’t even call my p—"

I had work tomorrow. How was I gonna clock in? What if Jason needed to text me? What if the guy woke up and needed something? What if the vet called about Biscuit the pigeon with anxiety?

I clutched my oat-milk soaked phone to my chest.

“Okay. Okay. Think. You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re just... very, very broke.”

Flan meowed.

“I’m not crying,” I said, sniffling. “I’m just leaking emotions from my eyes.”

Then I heard something.

I froze at the sound.

A low, rough scrape.

Then another, softer, like something dragging across the floor.

I shot up from the floor, my feet sliding on the sticky oat milk that had dropped out of my phone.

What was happening? Was he up?

No. He couldn’t be. Dr. Lane had said he'd be out of it for at least another day. Too much sedation. His body was fragile, battered. He was supposed to be unconscious and delirious, maybe but unconscious.

I took a cautious step toward the hallway. My breath was shallow, and I tried to quiet the pounding in my chest as I moved closer to the bedroom. What if I was just hearing things? What if it was just the wind?

But the scraping noise persisted, then, the faint sound of something heavy shifting.

It couldn’t be him.

I bit my lip, hesitating for just a moment longer than I should’ve, before my feet moved against my will, my hands clammy, the faint smell of antiseptic and the lingering scent of the eucalyptus oil still in the air.

Each step felt too loud, like I was about to disturb something or worse, make myself a target. Was he in pain? Was he trying to get up?

No, no, no. He was sedated. That was supposed to make him sleep, make him rest. The doctor’s orders kept echoing in my mind.

But then another scrape came, more forceful this time.

My breath caught.

I reached the doorway.

I should have knocked. I should have called out first but the dread that had settled in my stomach urged me forward, pulling my body into the room before I could stop it.

I stepped inside, my gaze darting to the bed. He wasn’t there.

I blinked. The bed was empty.

For a heart-stopping moment, I thought maybe I had imagined it all, maybe he hadn’t been here at all.

But then—

I saw him.

Standing at the far side of the room.

His bare feet were planted on the floor, his posture was stiff, rigid. His face was half-hidden in shadow.

And his eyes locked onto mine.

I couldn’t even move. My legs felt like they might give way beneath me.

"You—" I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, "What are you doing?" I said as I felt myself take a step back.

He wasn’t supposed to be moving. He shouldn’t even be awake.

And then he took a step toward me.

My heartbeat shot up, my head spun, and for a split second, everything around me felt suffocating and.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t even blink.

Before I could react, before I could say anything again, before I could take another step back, he spoke again, his words came out as a low warning growl.

"Don't move."