The moment we stepped into the apartment, the world outside vanished behind the closed door. It was quiet. Still. In silence, he disappeared—only to return moments later, first aid kit in hand, his eyes fixed solely on me. He took my wrist in his hand.
"Sit down," Vincenzo said softly, his voice like a whisper in the dark, the kind that melts your bones. He guided me gently to the couch, then knelt on the floor in front of me, his broad shoulders lowering. His fingers moved over my scraped hand with the gentleness of a man touching something sacred. He cleaned my wound carefully, blowing on it lightly so it wouldn't sting. His warm breath danced across my skin, and I didn't even feel the pain anymore.
I just stared at him—mesmerized.
The man who had torn through bullets and blood for me… was now tending to my smallest wounds like I was made of glass. When he finished wrapping the bandage around my palm, he looked up, his eyes finding mine with that fierce, quiet devotion. He stood slowly, brushing his thumb tenderly across my cheekbone. The kind of touch that says more than any words could ever do.
But then… I saw it.
The blood.
My breath caught. My eyes snapped down to his hand—and I froze.
"Vincenzo… your hand—there's blood—"
I caught his arm in a trembling grip, and my breath left me in a choke. Shards of glass. Still lodged in his flesh. The man who just treated me like I was the one broken… was bleeding silently, hiding his pain behind a smile. A storm rose inside me. I had seen blood before—too much. I had caused it, spilled it, soaked in it. I had smiled in its presence.
But not now.
Not like this.
Not his.
My hands shook uncontrollably. My vision blurred.
Tears.
Real ones.
He quickly tucked his injured hand behind his back and brought the other to my face, his palm cupping my cheek as he tried to calm me. His voice was a soft lie, but a beautiful one.
"It's nothing, sweetheart. Don't worry," he said. "It doesn't hurt."
But the way my chest ached told me otherwise. I pulled him down beside me, no longer able to hold the storm back. "Sit. Please," I whispered. He obeyed, and I gently reached for his wounded hand, tears slipping freely now. My fingers trembled as I began to pull the glass out, every shard feeling like it was cutting through me. He winced but said nothing. His other hand slid over my arm, rubbing softly—comforting me as I tended to his pain.
I flicked his hand away, not out of anger, but out of heartbreak. The tears burst freely now. "Why, Vincenzo?" I finally cried. "Why do you care so much about me that you forget your pain? This isn't fair. You can't keep bleeding for me like this."
He caught my hands mid-air and held them against his chest, over his heart—its rhythm strong, steady. His voice—raw, low, and trembling—broke the stillness. 'I'm sorry, Eva,' he said, each word wrapped in aching sincerity. "I never wanted to hurt you. But if protecting you means I have to bleed a little… I'll do it. Again and again. Because you're worth every scar."
And in that moment, the world outside no longer mattered.
It was just us.
Our wounds. Our truths. Our quiet, fragile love that refused to stay silent anymore.
He touched his forehead to mine, brushing a soft kiss there. And in that stillness, under the flickering light of a tired room, two broken souls held each other like lifelines.
Because that's exactly what we are now.
Each other's only way out.
I climbed into his lap without a second thought, my arms wrapping tightly around his neck, as I'd lose my breath without it. My voice trembled against his ear.
"Why are you saying sorry?" I whispered, pressing my face into his shoulder. "This… this wasn't your fault."
He held me tighter as if he could anchor me with his embrace alone. His breath was warm against my skin as he said softly, "Because I can't bear to see you in pain, Eva. It hurts more than my wounds ever could." A sharp ache swelled in my chest—too tender, too raw.
"Vincenzo… please don't care for me this much," I said, voice breaking like waves on a shore. "I'll get addicted to this… to you." He pulled back just slightly and rested his chin on my shoulder, his arms still caging me in like a promise. His voice was a vow—low, steady, and filled with more truth than I was ready for.
"Then let yourself get addicted," he whispered.
" Because I want to care for you until the last drop of blood leaves my veins."
My heart clenched. He gently pulled back, guiding my face toward his. His thumb brushed under my eyes, wiping away the silent tears sliding down my cheeks. Then, slowly—tenderly— kissed away the tears that streamed silently down my cheeks.
"You know," he whispered, his voice unsteady, "it breaks something inside me every time I see you hurt. Every tear from those beautiful eyes feels like a knife in my chest. I want nothing more than to see you smile, to see your eyes shine with joy—not sorrow." I smiled through my tears, my fingers curling in his shirt.
"These aren't tears of pain, Vincenzo… they're because of you. Because you've loved me more than anyone ever has. I was a girl who never knew what love was. I didn't understand it. I never thought I deserved it. But you… you've shown me more love and care than I ever dreamed possible. And that… that terrifies me." He pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, grounding me.
"Eva," he breathed, "you don't understand… you filled the hollow inside me that I didn't even know existed. You taught me how to live. You showed me how it feels to be human, not just a weapon."
He took a shaky breath and pulled me even closer, his heartbeat roaring against mine.
And then… his voice came low, soft, full of naked truth.
"Today," he said, " I want to say it out loud. Eva… I love you. I love you more than my breath. A world without you isn't one I want to live in. I don't want to see a single sunrise without you by my side. I want to fight, fall, rise, and live through it all—with you. I want every second of my life—from pain to pleasure—to be with you."
I couldn't stop the way my heart crumbled in his arms. We held each other so tightly it felt like nothing could separate us—not time, not war, not even fate.And then… he kissed me.
Softly. Emotionally.
As if every broken part of him was being stitched together with that one kiss. I cupped his face and kissed him back, pouring every silent promise, every unspoken truth into it. At that moment, I melted into him completely. The walls I had built around my heart for years collapsed, brick by brick. And I knew it then—with a terrifying clarity.
I was already addicted to him.
And there was no turning back. I wanted him in my every tomorrow, in my every breath. Not just as a partner in a mission—but as the man who had stolen my soul and given me his.
I wasn't just in love with Vincenzo.
I belonged to him.
"Eva," he murmured, brushing a gentle kiss against my forehead, "you need to rest now."
But I wasn't ready to let go—not yet. I wrapped my arms around his neck tightly, like he was the only thing anchoring me to this world. My voice came out soft, barely a whisper against his skin.
"I don't want to leave you…"
He chuckled—low, deep, and full of affection. That sound alone could mend broken pieces of me.
"Then don't,"he said, scooping me into his arms. Without saying another word, he slipped one arm under my legs and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. I melted into him, I buried my face in his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calm me. He carried me through the dim hallway, the hush of the night wrapping around us like silk. The kitchen lights were soft, and golden, like moonlight filtered through a dream. He set me gently on the marble countertop, his hands lingering at my waist. I watched as he moved to pour water into a glass, his every action calm, deliberate—like caring for me was a ritual he'd memorized long ago.
He brought the glass to my lips, not letting me lift a finger.
"Here," he said softly, "drink."
I obeyed, sipping slowly—somehow, the water tasted sweeter now, like it carried the weight of his attention, the warmth of his gaze lingering on my lips. After a few sips, I lowered the glass, studying him curiously.
"How did you know? I always have a glass of water before bed."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took the glass from my hands, lifted it to his lips, and drank the remaining water—his mouth meeting the very spot where mine had just been. A quiet, electric kind of intimacy passed between us, wordless but undeniable. Then he placed the glass down and looked at me, a knowing smile playing at the edge of his lips.
"I've seen you," he said, voice low like the words meant far more than they revealed. The answer struck me deeper than I expected. I slid my arms around his neck again, my voice turning breathless as I whispered,
"So… you watch me that much?"
He leaned closer, his nose nearly touching mine, his breath feathering against my lips. His smile turned into something more intimate, more honest.
"Observing you is my favorite thing to do," he confessed.
My heart clenched at the depth in his tone. I pulled him into a hug. My fingers gripped the back of his shirt, and my lips brushed against his ear.
"Vincenzo… do you plan to kill me with this much care?"
His hands moved slowly to the back of my head, brushing through my hair with reverent fingers. Slowly, almost reverently, he gathered my hair between his fingers, the touch featherlight. With practiced ease, he twisted it into a loose ponytail, securing it with the simple black band he slipped from his wrist—an intimate gesture that felt far more personal than it should have. The gesture was so small, so ordinary—and yet, it felt like poetry.
Like a man who didn't just love you, But knew you.
It wasn't just care.
It was devotion.
He looked at me with those eyes full of fire and love and whispered with a voice low: "I'll die first before I let anything happen to you," he whispered, voice deep and fierce, a soft storm behind his eyes. Before I could say anything, he lifted me gently into his arms, cradling me like I was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world. The way he held me—possessive, protective, full of quiet desperation. I held onto him tightly, burying my face in his chest, heart pounding against his as he carried me down the silent hallway, into the soft shadows of his room.
"Do you want to change?" he asked softly, his gaze scanning my expression with concern as if even the idea of my discomfort made him uneasy. I nodded, but then I reached up and pressed gently on his shoulders. I smiled with mischief dancing in my eyes.
"Actually… I want to show you something. But for that—you need to close your eyes."
He chuckled, amused and intrigued. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small chuckle. "A surprise? For me?"
"Yes," I said, pushing him down gently onto the bed. "Close your eyes."
He obeyed—smiling but compliant. I kissed his cheek—a feather-light, lingering kiss—and whispered, "No peeking", leaving behind the warmth of my lips and then padded softly across the room, my steps light with anticipation. Drawn to his wardrobe, my fingers moved instinctively, reaching for his shirt. Then I go into the bathroom, the shirt swallowing me in soft fabric and scent—his scent. My fingers ran over the collar as I brought the sleeves to my face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like him… midnight, danger, and comfort all at once. Wearing it felt like being wrapped in his arms. I stepped back into the room, the shirt draping down my thighs, the sleeves swallowing my hands. I walked to him in soft, barefoot steps and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Open your eyes," I whispered.
He opened them slowly, and for a heartbeat, he didn't say anything. He just stared—like he was memorizing me, burning the sight into his soul. He leaned back slightly, one hand covering his face, peeking through his fingers. Then his voice dropped, low and full of something that melted into my bones.
"That… is the best surprise I've ever had," he murmured. "There's nothing more tempting than seeing my woman in my clothes."
He pulled me closer by the waist, his hands wrapping around me like silk and fire. His fingers traced lazy circles on my hips, slow and reverent. I climbed onto his lap, straddling him gently, and he pressed his lips to the hollow of my collarbone—soft, almost worshipful—like he wasn't kissing skin but the very soul of me.
"I think these are the most comfortable clothes I've ever worn," I whispered, fingers threading into his hair. He looked up, voice husky and velvet-smooth. His hand caressed the back of my head, pulling me closer until I melted into his embrace.
"And You," he murmured, "are the most comfortable place I've ever known."
And finally, we slipped under the sheets. I wrapped my arms around him, closing my eyes as I leaned into the quiet hum of his heartbeat. He was my comfort. He pulled me close, my head resting over his bare chest, his heart a steady rhythm beneath my cheek. His arms caged me in—no escape, and God, I didn't want one. I curled into him completely, my legs tangling with his, our breaths syncing into one. His arms caged me—safety, warmth, devotion.
The room faded into silence. Time slowed.
There was no mission now. No fear. No enemies.
Just him. Just me. Just this.
Because right here… wrapped in his shirt, wrapped in his arms…
I was finally at peace.