💉PART 1: Waiting Room of the Heart
The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile blue tint across the operating room. Your hands worked automatically — steady, precise, almost detached — as you finished the final sutures on your patient’s forearm. A clean slice from a broken wine glass, sharp and elegant in its simplicity. The kind of injury you could handle in your sleep.

But tonight, your mind wasn’t here.
Your heart was somewhere else — in a darkened apartment with cold takeout on the table, waiting for the sound of a familiar key turning in the door.

You tied off the last stitch with a practiced flick of your wrist, then carefully peeled off your gloves, the latex snapping against your skin with a soft hiss. Blood was no longer something that fazed you — you were a surgeon, after all — but tonight, your fingers trembled slightly. The weight of waiting was becoming unbearable.

You stood there for a beat longer than necessary, eyes lingering on the smooth line of sutures, the stainless steel instruments glinting beside you, the heart monitor beeping with rhythmic indifference.

Still no message. No missed call. Nothing.

With a sigh, you moved to the sink, scrubbing your hands in warm water that stung your dry knuckles. You washed like it was ritual, like if you scrubbed long enough you could wash away the knot in your chest. The soap smelled faintly of citrus and antiseptic. Comforting. But not enough.

You stepped out of the OR into the quiet post-midnight corridor. The nurses’ station was dimmed; the night shift ran quieter than the chaos of the day, but the silence tonight felt… louder. Heavier.

Dr. Jisoo, your colleague and best friend from med school, leaned against the wall sipping from her oversized thermal mug, her brown hair tied in a messy bun that had collapsed hours ago. She raised a single knowing eyebrow as she spotted you walking toward your locker.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, tilting her head. “He’s late again?”

You offered her a smile — or something like one — as you unzipped your scrubs and changed into your hoodie. The black one. The one that smelled faintly of Jungkook’s cologne, all citrus spice and sandalwood. The one he’d shrunk in the dryer after a week of moving in with you, laughing sheepishly as you rescued it from the laundry pile. Now, it was yours. He’d teased you for wearing it so often. But tonight, it felt more like armor than comfort.

You nodded. “He said he’d be home by ten.”

You glanced at the digital wall clock above the exit doors.

“It's nearly one.”

Jisoo winced sympathetically, then reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee.

“Here. You look like you’re about to collapse or punch someone.”

You took the can, turning it between your palms, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

“I won’t collapse,” you said with a tired chuckle. “But I might punch something.”

She leaned her shoulder against the wall beside you, her voice softer now. “You okay, Y/N?”

You hesitated. Let the silence stretch out. It wasn't the first time Jungkook was late. Was unreachable. Left you waiting in silence with questions your heart never wanted to ask.

“I know he’s a cop,” you finally said, your voice quiet, guarded. “I know he deals with the worst of humanity. Drug busts, gang informants, death threats. I get it — it comes with the job.”

You looked down at your shoes, then back up at her.
“But sometimes… the weight feels heavier than the ring.”

Jisoo nodded. Not in pity, not in judgment — but in understanding. You’d both sat through lectures on trauma, burnout, the cost of caring. But no textbook had ever warned you how love could ache like this.

“He loves you,” she said. “He’d die for you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I just wish he’d live for me too.”

That truth hung in the air between you like a confession too heavy to carry.

The intercom crackled overhead. A sleepy nurse asked for a chart. Somewhere down the corridor, a janitor pushed his mop in tired circles. Life moved on.

You sighed, tucking the can of coffee into your coat pocket, and adjusted the sleeves of your hoodie.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jisoo.”

“Y/N—” she started, but you waved her off with a weak smile.

“Don’t worry. I’m okay. Just tired.”

You walked toward the elevator, heels echoing down the hallway like a quiet metronome counting the seconds he was late. The glass doors of the hospital entrance reflected your figure as you stepped outside — small, solitary under the looming gray night sky.

Rain threatened the air, clinging to your skin in soft mist. You pulled the hoodie up over your head and crossed the nearly empty parking lot. The cold bit at your fingertips. The streetlights buzzed, a couple of moths flitting around them like lost souls.

You reached your car, unlocking it with a beep.

Slid into the driver’s seat.

Started the engine.

Still no message.

No missed call. No signal. No "Be home soon" or "Don't wait up."

Just silence.

But what you didn’t know — what you couldn’t possibly feel under the hum of the engine and the ache in your chest — was that someone had been watching you for the past fifteen minutes.

A white van. Parked two blocks away.
Lights off. Engine quiet.
Windows tinted.

Inside, a man adjusted the long-lens camera aimed directly at you. Another man — gloves on, eyes alert — typed something into a burner phone.

A single text lit up the van’s console:

“Target confirmed. She’s alone.”

🌃PART 2: The Intrusion

The city outside your apartment pulsed with the low hum of midnight rain, the streets slick and glistening under the lamplight. Droplets raced down the windowpane, tracing lazy paths on the glass like silent tears. Inside, the apartment was quiet — too quiet.

You’d left the hallway light on, just like always, a small glow to greet Jungkook when he came home.

But tonight, it felt like a lie.

You toed off your sneakers by the door, your scrubs damp at the hem from the drizzle. The silence was suffocating, so you crossed to the speaker and tapped play.

Soft jazz floated into the air — mellow piano and saxophone, rich with melancholy. Jungkook always teased you about your “depressing doctor music.”

“Play anything with a pulse next time, babe. You're gonna put me to sleep before I even hit the couch.”

You could still hear his voice saying it. But tonight, he wasn’t here to roll his eyes or steal a kiss mid-song. You curled into the couch, pulling his oversized bomber jacket over your legs. It still smelled like him — gunmetal, cologne, adrenaline. You let your thumb hover over his name on your phone screen.

1:34 AM.

You stared at the time. Bit your lip.

No messages.

Not even a “be safe” or a stupid meme. Nothing for the third night in a row.

You were just about to hit Call when—

CRACK.

Glass.

The sound echoed like a bullet.

You froze.

For a second, your mind refused to accept it. Maybe something fell. Maybe the wind—

Then you heard it again.
Glass. Shattered.
Somewhere near the back of the apartment.

Your blood turned to ice.

Slowly, you rose from the couch, bare feet making no sound on the cold wooden floor. The music continued to play, soft and oblivious. Your hand reached instinctively toward the bookshelf. You fumbled, grabbing the heaviest object in reach — an iron candle stand Jungkook’s mother had given you.

Ridiculous, but heavy. Your only weapon.

You moved toward the kitchen, every muscle tense. The apartment was dark beyond the hallway glow. You strained your ears — the creak of a floorboard, the shift of something soft—

The curtains moved.

Not from the wind.

From someone.

Then you saw him.

A silhouette. Broad. Masked.

Inside your home.

Your breath caught in your throat. Terror bloomed like fire in your chest.

Then — he charged.

Your scream ripped through the apartment as you swung wildly. The iron rod connected with his shoulder with a sickening thud. He stumbled — but only for a second.

Then his gloved hand caught your wrist.
Hard.
You screamed again.

He shoved you to the floor, your spine cracking against the wood with a sickening jolt. Your breath was ripped from your lungs. You clawed at his mask, desperate, nails raking across fabric and skin.

“LET GO OF ME!”

His voice was low, guttural — a growl through clenched teeth.

“Where’s the file, surgeon?”

You froze.

“What file?! I—I’m not—”

BANG.

The front door exploded inward.

“MOVE!”

Jungkook’s voice.

Before you could blink, he was airborne — a black blur of fury — tackling the man off of you. They crashed into the wall, pictures raining down, a lamp shattering as they went down in a storm of fists and limbs.

“Y/N, get back!” Jungkook roared between blows.

But you couldn’t move. You were paralyzed, still clutching the iron rod, blood pounding in your ears.

The fight was brutal. This wasn’t some street thug — the man was trained, every movement calculated. He landed a knee into Jungkook’s ribs, forcing a grunt of pain, then slammed an elbow into his jaw.

Jungkook staggered, blood on his lip.

You snapped back to life.

The pepper spray.

You dove toward the kitchen drawer, yanked it open, and grabbed the small black canister Jungkook had insisted you carry. You turned — the attacker had just gotten the upper hand, pressing Jungkook to the ground, hand going for his gun—

“HEY!” you screamed, and sprayed.

Full force. Straight into the man’s eyes.

He howled, clawing at his face, stumbling blindly.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He lunged up and slammed the man to the floor, knee pressing to his chest, elbow to his neck. In one fluid move, he cuffed the bastard, blood dripping from his own nose.

The attacker thrashed wildly, cursing through the pain.

“Where’s the f—fuckin’ file—!”

“Shut up,” Jungkook growled, yanking the mask off and tossing it aside.

You leaned against the counter, hands shaking, heart crashing against your ribs.

Sirens.
Flashing red and blue filled the windows a beat later.

The front door burst open again.

“Jungkook!”

Detective Min Yoongi stormed in, gun drawn, his expression going from fury to panic in a split second.

“You okay?” he barked.

“I’m fine,” Jungkook grunted, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “She—she’s hurt.”

Yoongi turned to you.

“Ma’am? Are you—”

“I—I’m okay,” you whispered, still holding the metal rod like a lifeline.

Yoongi stepped toward you carefully, gently easing the weapon from your hands.

Jungkook was already beside you, pulling you into him. His hands shook as they cupped your face.

“You’re okay. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

You collapsed into his chest, fists clutching his shirt like he’d disappear if you let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I was following the van. Lost them. God, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Yoongi cuffed the man tighter as two uniforms came in behind him to take the suspect.

“Get him to holding,” Yoongi ordered. “I want a name and a trail by sunrise.”

Then he turned to Jungkook.

“We need to take her to the precinct. Now. This wasn’t random.”

Jungkook nodded, jaw clenched, still holding you protectively.

“I’m riding with her.”

“No,” Yoongi said, firm. “You’re bleeding, you’re a witness, and you’re a cop. Let me take her. Meet us there.”

Jungkook hesitated.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“Go,” you said softly. “I’ll be okay.”

His forehead rested against yours.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, voice breaking, “they won’t touch you again. I’ll burn the world down if they do.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, pulling you gently toward the door.

As you walked outside under the flashing lights and drizzle, wrapped in Jungkook’s jacket and escorted by Seoul’s finest, one question echoed in your mind:

What file were they looking for?

And more importantly —

How did they know to come for you?

🚔PART 3: The Hidden File

The interrogation room was a steel tomb — windowless, soundless, cold enough to make your bones ache. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed faintly, casting sharp shadows across the bruised face of the man cuffed to the table.

Park Daejin.
Ex-intelligence.
Ex-human, by the look of him.

You stood behind the one-way mirror, wrapped in a precinct-issued blanket, still in Jungkook’s jacket. Your arms were crossed, but your fingers trembled slightly beneath the fabric.

Inside, Jungkook sat opposite the man, body still as stone. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, shirt bloodied from the fight. A butterfly bandage clung to his cheekbone, just below his temple. But his eyes were fire.

Deadly calm. Cop calm.

Yoongi paced behind him, file in hand.

“Name’s Park Daejin,” he muttered, glancing at you through the glass before entering. “Ex-intelligence unit. Black-ops trained. Fired two years ago under classified charges. Tied to at least two unresolved murders and suspected of ghost operations for underground crime rings.”

Jungkook didn’t take his eyes off the man.

“And he asked about a file,” Yoongi added, throwing the report down onto the table.

Park Daejin looked up, one eye swollen, lips curled.

“You said my wife had a file,” Jungkook said, voice low, controlled. “You want to repeat that?”

Park smirked, blood staining his teeth.

“She’s the reason I got burned,” he hissed. “Your precious little doctor-wife treated the wrong man.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed.

Park leaned forward, chains rattling. “She’s the surgeon who stitched up the undercover asset that flipped on my crew. He came in bleeding, shot twice. Should’ve died on the street. But no — she saved him.”

He glanced at the glass wall. You flinched.

“Which means she also had access to him. And to the USB.”

You stepped into the room. Yoongi shot you a look — protective, warning — but didn’t stop you.

“I treat dozens of emergency patients,” you said, stepping beside Jungkook. “Gunshot wounds, stabbings, OD crashes. I don’t ask who they are. I don’t care. I just keep them alive.”

Park’s eyes narrowed, then glittered.

“Yeah. I figured that’s what they tell you in your little Hippocratic bubble. But this guy—he wasn’t just some street punk. He was family once. Until he flipped.”

You frowned. “What do you mean flipped?”

“He sold us out,” Park growled. “He had a USB drive hidden in the heel of his boot. Contained names, drop points, surveillance footage. It vanished the night you patched him up. After that, I was blacklisted. Hunted. Tortured by my own. Left for dead.”

He leaned back, smile returning.

“And now you live in a glass penthouse with a cop husband and a cute couch full of jazz records.”

Jungkook lunged halfway across the table — Yoongi grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back with force.

“You really want to taunt the guy who almost killed you ten minutes ago?” Yoongi snapped. “Because I’m the only one in this room who’ll stop him.”

Park grinned, unfazed. “He won’t kill me. Not yet.”

Yoongi slammed the file shut.

“That USB never made it to Internal Affairs. No logs. No chain of custody. It means one thing — someone intercepted it.”

Jungkook’s eyes were dark. Focused.

“A mole.”

You inhaled sharply, heart thudding.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

There was a name. A single name. A voice from a trauma room bathed in blood and static and panic. You hadn’t thought of it in over a year. You’d dismissed it as dying breath nonsense.

But now… it rang clear in your ears.

Your voice cracked when you said it.

“Namjoon.”

Everything in the room went still.

Jungkook froze mid-motion, like the name had physically struck him. Yoongi's head snapped toward you.

“Say that again,” Jungkook said, slowly.

You looked down, remembering. “The patient. The one who came in with the chest wound. Young, early thirties. Broken ribs, skull fracture, internal bleeding. He coded. We lost him. But just before he flatlined, he grabbed my wrist and whispered... Namjoon.”

You met Jungkook’s eyes.

“I didn’t write it in the chart. I thought he was hallucinating. Delirious.”

Jungkook stood up so suddenly his chair scraped violently against the floor. His voice dropped to a whisper — hoarse and angry.

“Chief Namjoon?”

Yoongi’s face darkened.

“The man who’s been leading the anti-narcotics task force for three years?” he said. “He’s your boss.”

“Exactly,” Jungkook whispered, eyes storming. “He’s the one who pulled me off the original USB investigation. Said it was a dead lead.”

Park chuckled.

“Looks like your little golden boy’s finally catching up.”

Yoongi swore under his breath.

Jungkook paced once, jaw clenched. Then he stopped. Looked at you.

“Do you remember anything else? Did the USB ever come into the hospital’s possession? Could it have been logged?”

You shook your head. “No. I didn’t know anything about a USB. But if it was hidden in his boot, it could’ve been handed off before he got to surgery.”

Yoongi was already grabbing his phone. “I’m calling in a sweep on the hospital’s security footage from that night.”

Park leaned forward again.

“You’re too late,” he said softly. “That file’s already passed hands. If Namjoon has it… you’re both dead before sunrise.”

Jungkook stepped toward him, voice like thunder.

“Try me.”

🕳️PART 4: Trust Fractured, Truth Unfolds

Safehouse, 2:47 a.m.

The room smelled like antiseptic and rain. Dim yellow light flickered from a half-broken lamp in the corner. The walls were bare except for a dusty clock ticking too loud for comfort. The safehouse was nothing more than an old apartment the force used for undercover hibernation — cold tiles, makeshift furniture, a first-aid kit on the table, and now, bloodstains on the floor.

Jungkook paced shirtless, a deep gash trailing down his shoulder blade from the earlier fight. He’d refused treatment. Yoongi had tried — twice — but Jungkook had brushed him off with the same haunted silence he now carried like armor.

His fists were clenched, veins prominent on his forearms. You watched him from the couch, knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in a too-thin blanket. Every time he took another pass across the room, you could feel his temperature rising — not from fever, but fury.

“He’s our chief, Y/N,” Jungkook growled. “Namjoon... he’s the one who told me to back off the USB case. He swore it was dead.”

You nodded slowly, voice quiet. “He was your best man.”

Jungkook stopped mid-step. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

You added, even softer, “He gave the toast at our wedding. Said no one had your back like he did.”

A bitter laugh escaped Jungkook’s lips, sharp and hollow. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Turns out he was holding the knife behind it.”

Silence.

Then:

“Then what now?” you asked. “Where does this leave us?”

He turned slowly, eyes raw, lips parted. The anger didn’t vanish — it just shattered into something deeper. Grief.

He walked to you, dropped to his knees in front of the couch, and cupped your face with both hands.

“Now,” he said, trembling, “I trust only you.”

You blinked. “Kook…”

“I mean it,” he whispered. “Everyone else — the department, the chain of command, even the people I thought were my brothers — they’re compromised. But you—”

He paused, his thumb brushing a tear you didn’t know had fallen.

“You’re the only thing in my life that hasn’t lied to me.”

The words split something inside you.

And then… it hit.

The weight. The delay. The silence you’d forced yourself to swallow.

“I almost died tonight,” you whispered.

It cracked the dam in him.

He exhaled sharply, his forehead falling to your shoulder, his arms winding around you like a man trying to hold back a tidal wave. You felt him shake. Just slightly. But it was enough.

“I know,” he breathed. “And that’s killing me.”

You pulled back slightly. He looked up.

For the first time since you’d known him — not in your ER, not during missions, not even during funerals — you saw tears in his eyes.

“I should’ve protected you,” he rasped. “If I’d been two minutes late—”

“But you weren’t.”

“I saw your face,” he choked out. “On the floor. Bruised. Terrified. I can’t— I can’t get it out of my head.”

You leaned in, kissing his temple. His jaw. “I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m here. We’re both here.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your eyelids. Then your wrist — the one with a faint scar from an old surgery accident. His lips lingered on it like it was a sacred wound.

Then lower — your collarbone, your neck, the hollow where you always leaned your head against his shoulder.

His hands ghosted over the bruises blooming along your arms and ribs. So carefully. Reverently. His touch wasn’t lust. It was worship. Grief. Remorse.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you whispered as his lips trailed lower.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he murmured. “I just… I need to feel you alive.”

The blanket slid from your shoulders. The air was cold. But his hands were warm.

He kissed your stomach like it held every ounce of safety he’d lost. Your thighs like they were proof of breath. He paused at the inside of your knee — that fragile, overlooked place — and pressed his cheek to it as if grounding himself in your presence.

You slipped to the floor with him. Legs folded beneath you. Arms winding around his neck. You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder and breathed him in — salt, sweat, rain, blood, home.

“I don’t want to be brave tonight,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he replied, voice trembling. “Just be here. With me.”

Your fingers ran through his hair, tugging gently as he pulled you closer. No urgency. No demands. Just need. Shared, deep, bone-deep.

You made love on the floor — slowly. Quietly. Like two people who had both seen death and needed to feel life again.

He was silent except for your name.

You were silent except for his heartbeat.

The rain outside softened to mist.

The broken world was still waiting.

But in that moment — legs folded, hearts open, fears unraveling — you both remembered what it meant to survive.

And what it meant to belong to each other, completely.

💥PART 5: The Final Reveal

Underground garage, Seoul Police Headquarters — 11:03 PM

The air smelled of oil, gasoline, and damp concrete.

The overhead lights buzzed. Flickered. Faded.

Namjoon stood near the stairwell exit, calm in a suit too clean for the mess he left behind. One hand in his coat pocket. The other holding a phone he didn’t need to check. He knew Jungkook would come.

And he did.

Jungkook walked in slowly — boots echoing on the concrete. Hair wet from the rain. Gun at his side. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. A bandage still visible beneath the fresh bruises.

He looked like a ghost. A storm. A man no longer asking.

Namjoon’s gaze didn’t waver.

“So,” Namjoon said casually, “You figured it out.”

“I know about the USB,” Jungkook said flatly. Voice low. Final.

Namjoon didn’t flinch. His lips curled into a ghost of a smile. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. “What are you going to say? That you had no choice?”

Namjoon stepped forward, slowly. “You don’t know what that file held, Jeon. That man was going to burn us all. The op would’ve collapsed — years of intel, agents undercover, strings pulled from every direction. We were days away from bringing the entire syndicate down.”

“You weren’t bringing anything down,” Jungkook snapped. “You were selling data. Trading names. Letting the wrong ones live and the right ones die.”

Namjoon’s voice dropped. “You don’t know the pressure I was under.”

“I don’t care.”

Namjoon paused. Eyes narrowing. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Jungkook raised his gun, slowly. Smoothly. No tremble.

“No,” he said. “I’m going to ask you a question first.”

Namjoon’s expression twisted — surprise? Amusement?

“What did you tell him?”

“Who?”

“The man you sent into our home.”

Namjoon’s lips parted. The briefest flicker of guilt — or maybe calculation.

“I told him to scare her,” he said finally. “That’s all.”

Jungkook’s eyes went cold. “That wasn’t just fear. That was attempted murder.”

“She should’ve kept quiet,” Namjoon said simply. “You both should’ve. You’d still have your badge. Your peace. But she didn’t — and now here we are.”

Jungkook’s hand clenched tighter on the trigger.

“She saved a man’s life,” he hissed. “She did her job.”

“And she ruined ours.”

“You betrayed the force.”

Namjoon shrugged. “Sometimes survival trumps loyalty. You’ll understand someday. When you’re older. When you realize that—”

The gunshot echoed like thunder in the hollow garage.

Namjoon dropped to one knee, hand clutching his thigh. Blood pooling fast.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “No,” he said. “I’ll never understand people like you.”

Sirens screeched outside.

Yoongi’s voice crackled through the comms: “Target confirmed. Move in.”

Within seconds, Namjoon was swarmed. Cuffed. Pressed to the ground. He didn’t resist. He just stared at Jungkook as he was dragged away.

Still smiling.

But Jungkook turned without a word. He walked into the rain — soaked, splattered, silent — because he had already made peace with what mattered.

He wasn’t just a cop anymore.

He was a man who protected home.

🌅 EPILOGUE: Homecoming

Four weeks later

The apartment was warm.

A soft jazz tune — Miles Davis, one of your favorites — played low from the speaker in the corner. The curtains were drawn back. Morning light spilled through the rain-streaked glass like a benediction.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring coffee with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of Jungkook’s old hoodie — the one that still smelled like him even after a hundred washes. The sleeves hung past your hands.

Outside, the city was slowly waking up.

Behind you, the floor creaked.

You didn’t turn — you felt his presence before you heard him. Jungkook’s arms slid gently around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. He was still wearing his sweatpants. Hair wet from a shower. A faint scar still peeked through the collar of his t-shirt — but the bruises were fading.

“Good morning,” he murmured against your skin.

You leaned back into him, letting out a small breath. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I dreamed I was chasing you through a burning building.”

You turned slowly in his arms, looking up at him. “You caught me?”

“Of course I did.”

His eyes searched yours. Soft. Steady.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

You hesitated, gaze dropping to the steam rising from your coffee mug.

“How close we came to losing this.”

He nodded slowly, resting his forehead against yours. “Every night I stayed out late... every lead I chased without telling you... I thought I was protecting you.”

“You were protecting the mission.”

“I was wrong,” he whispered. “You were the mission.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s over now. Right?”

“The case?” he said. “Yeah. Namjoon confessed. The file’s in evidence. They’re cleaning house.”

“And us?”

He smiled.

That real smile — the one that reached his eyes, the one you hadn’t seen in weeks.

He cupped your cheek. “I came home late that night,” he said, voice low, “but I’ll never be late again.”

You tilted your head up, lips brushing his.

“Promise?”

He held you tighter.

“On my badge,” he whispered. “And your heart.”

You kissed him — soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that doesn’t say goodbye or hello, just I’m here. Still. Always.

The jazz kept playing.

The coffee stayed warm.

And in the quiet comfort of that kitchen — where lives had almost shattered — you held onto the man who bled, fought, and nearly broke to protect the only thing he couldn’t live without.

You.

Thanks for watching.

The End...