The Mafia Man Wants My Heart

was now thick with an unsettling stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Shadows stretched across the walls, shifting with the faint flicker

led backward, pressing myself against the headboard. My fingers fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, but before I could grab it, he took a step closer. "Don't," he warned. His posture wasn't aggressive, but there was an undeniable weight to his presence, something dangerous humming beneath his exhaustion. "Who the hell are you?" My voice shook despite my effort to steady it. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he swayed slightly, his body betraying his weakness. He clutched his arm, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose. "I'm sorry for breaking in," he finally muttered. "I just needed a place to hide." "Hide?" My skin prickled. "From who?" A humorless smirk touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "From worse people than me." I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around the edge of the blanket. His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of whatever he had escaped pressing down on him. "I won't touch you. I just..." He swayed again, his strength waning. "Just needed a place to breathe." Before I could process his words, he groaned and collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Instinct battled logic. He was injured. Clearly struggling. But he was also a stranger who had just broken into my room. I should have called for help. Should have run. But instead- "Are you hurt?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. His head lolled slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet mine. There was surprise in them, as if he hadn't expected kindness. As if the concept was foreign to him. He nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Yeah... got stabbed." The air between us grew heavier. Fear still gripped me, my instincts screaming at me to run, to call for help. But something in his voice-his exhaustion, his pain-made me hesitate. He was injured. Vulnerable. A part of me wished I could ignore it, pretend he wasn't sitting there bleeding into my carpet. But I couldn't. "Wait here." My legs were shaky as I climbed out of bed, keeping my eyes on him as I moved toward the door. My body was still tense, every nerve on high alert, but he made no move to stop me. The hallway was dim, the only light coming from a flickering bulb near the stairwell. Mounted on the wall was a small emergency first aid kit. I fumbled with the latch, nearly dropping it in my rush. By the time I returned, he was in the same spot, his back resting against the wall, his breathing slow but uneven. His jaw was tight, his fingers curled near his side, as if he were fighting to stay conscious. I slid the kit toward him, keeping a cautious distance. He exhaled sharply, the faintest trace of relief crossing his face as he reached for it. His fingers were unsteady, and when he tried to peel back the fabric of his torn sleeve, a sharp hiss escaped him. Guilt pricked at me. He was hurt, and here I was, treating him like a criminal. Even if t