KIERAN
I watched the door click shut behind her. She didn't say much, just that she was heading to work. A tight smile, like always. Too tight.
I waited. Just a few seconds, long enough to be sure I wouldn't be caught standing there like a dog waiting by the door. Then I moved. Not because the apartment was messy, it wasn't. It never was. But because doing something helped me ignore the fact that I was itching to follow her.
I started with the dishes. Her plate from breakfast. I ran hot water over it, scrubbing mindlessly. My thoughts weren't on the plate. They were on her.
She never asks for help.
Even when she's crumbling. Especially when she's crumbling.
Last night, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wasn't asleep when she stepped out of her room. I'd heard every quiet step. The bathroom door creaked, water ran for a bit… I thought she'd go back to her room. That was what I expected.
But then she came to the couch.
To me.
She curled up at the edge, like she didn't want to bother me. Like she was ashamed to need someone. And her breathing… it was shaky. Like she'd been crying but didn't want me to know.
But I did. I always do. I waited for her to leave but she didn't.
So when I opened my eyes and saw her like that, eyes raw and distant, her body small and folded into itself, I knew I couldn't turn away. Not again. Not like earlier.
So I let her stay. Let her cling. Let her soften the way I sleep.
I don't know how the hell she does that. She's like a human-sized pillow with abandonment issues. And I... I like the weight of her more than I should.
I wiped down the counter, then moved to sweep the floor even though it was already spotless. The repetitive motion helped.
I glanced toward the fridge after I was done. It was still pretty full from the last grocery run, but most of it was basic stuff. Kina's idea of a meal was instant noodles and soda. She'd happily live off fries and those weird chocolate croissants that expire in five minutes.
I grabbed my phone and opened a new note.
To Buy:
Leafy greens (spinach, kale—whatever's on sale)
Chicken breast
Real fruit juice (not the boxed crap)
Yogurt
Eggs
Oats
Fresh fruits
Snacks she'll actually eat that won't kill her
Then I went to the small stash of containers by the sink, the ones Mrs. Kim had sent over. Neatly labeled, washed, and now dry. Kimchi, anchovies, pickled radish. I packed them in a bag to return them. She'd probably be pissed if I kept them too long.
I was scribbling more things onto the list (note to self: teach Kina how to eat like a grown-up) when I heard it.
A knock.
Once. Twice. Rhythmic. Familiar.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
I walked over and opened the door. Sure enough, there was Rocco, standing there like a pain in my ass, cigarette in his mouth and a cocky smile stretched across his stubble-lined face.
"Hello Mr house-husband" he grinned. "Or should I start calling you Mr. Domestic?"
"Cut the shit," I muttered. "And kill the smoke."
He raised his hands, mock innocent, and flicked the cigarette out the door before strolling in like he owned the place. He had a briefcase in one hand, same beaten-up leather one he always used when he wasn't pretending to be a respectable doctor.
"Damn. This place is clean," he said, whistling low as he looked around. "She really got you trained, huh?"
I chucked a rag at his face. "I'll kill you."
"You say that with a vacuum cleaner behind you. Kinda kills the threat."
I ignored him and pointed to the table. "Put it down. You got everything?"
He set the briefcase down, popping it open with a click.
"Like I promised," he said.
Inside, bundles of cash were stacked beside sleek handguns. Clean, efficient, deadly.
A Glock 43X, compact but reliable.
A Sig Sauer P365, with a trigger like a whisper.
A couple of Beretta 92FS, because they were classic.
Ammo boxes tucked in the corners, silencers wrapped in cloth.
"Nice," I murmured, running a hand along the Glock. "How'd you get the cash so clean?"
"Let's just say your girl's office isn't the only building laundering funds," he winked.
I shot him a look, and he held up both hands again.
"Hey. I'm just the delivery guy."
"I'm paying you double."
"For what?" he raised a brow, genuinely surprised. "You think this shit's hard for me?"
"Not for your hands," I said, checking the weight of a Beretta, "but for your silence."
He laughed under his breath. "You really think I'd sell you out?"
"I don't think," I replied, cold. "I pay."
He whistled. "And here I thought you were getting soft."
"Like I give a shit what you think."
Still... I saw the way his gaze drifted to the couch. The faintest smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.
"You sleep better these days, don't you?" he said, like a casual observation. "Even when the world's still out to kill you. I bet you're all cozy and shit. I can see it in your face."
I didn't respond. Just reached into the case and checked the last magazine.
Because he was right.
And I didn't want to admit it.
Rocco leaned back, that damned grin still dancing around his lips.
"You should see your face though," he said, chuckling. "Real soft, brother. Real… domestic."
I didn't dignify that with a reply. I just set my glass down and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
"Tell me," I said, my voice low. "What's the latest on Scorpion?"
Rocco sobered immediately, the joking gone from his face like a switch had been flipped.
"He's gone full rogue. Got his own faction now, fully armed, fully fed, and they're moving fast. Ruthless as hell. Anyone who doesn't bend the knee is getting wiped out. Doesn't matter if they're kids, women, old friends. They don't pledge, they disappear."
My jaw tensed. "Even the street kids?"
He nodded. "Even them."
I sucked in a slow breath, heart thrumming once at the mention of them. "Anyone we personally know?"
"One of Kyle's friends," he said quietly. "The one with the red hoodie, remember? Small, loud mouth. They hacked him to pieces in the alley behind a butcher shop."