As I glance at the man in my passenger seat, I can’t help but replay everything that’s happened in the last hour. One moment I was being attacked, fighting for my life, convinced no help was coming—and then he appeared. The way he fought off two grown men was something I’d only ever imagined happening in a movie.

As if tired of the silence, he shifts, ready to speak.

“Thank you again,” I say quickly, cutting him off before he can.

He shuts his mouth, leans back, and absently runs his hand across the dashboard.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Like I told you, I wasn’t really planning on saving you at first,” he says, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.

I grip the wheel tighter, eyes fixed on the road. “Then why did you? What changed, exactly?”

He pulls his hand off the dashboard and turns his head toward the window.

“…I’m tired of it all,” he mutters, his breath fogging the glass. With one finger, he scrawls something in a language I don’t recognize.

I stay quiet, waiting. The silence stretches, heavy in the car, until he finally speaks again.

“Did you know I’m the youngest detective in the force’s history?” he asks, wiping the writing away with his sleeve.

I glance at him, but he keeps staring out into the dark.

“I got it by doing my job the way it was meant to be done—doing the right thing.”

He lets out a short, almost bitter laugh at the end, as if even he doesn’t fully believe it anymore.

“…I see.” It’s all I can manage. I don’t pretend to understand the politics of police life, and I don’t want to pry deeper than he’s willing to go.

“How old are you, anyway?” I ask, trying to diffuse the tension pressing in on us.

He exhales through his nose, a faint puff of air against the window. “Well… today’s my birthday. So I guess I just turned twenty-nine.”

I glance at him, surprised. “Is that why you don’t have your gun or badge on you?”

The turn signal clicks as I flick it on, guiding us through the intersection. Neither of us says much after that, the silence settling again as the headlights sweep over familiar streets. We’ve already agreed to head back to my place—I need to check on my niece and nephew, and with my phone dead, I can’t shake the unease of not knowing if they’re safe.
As I pull into the driveway, I spot my nephew peeking out from behind the curtain. Victor finally turns his head toward me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Is that your son?” he asks, lifting a hand in a casual wave to the boy.

I can’t help but laugh. “Haha, no—he’s not my son. He’s my brother’s kid. My brother’s been going through some things lately, so I’ve been looking after him and his sister. My mom helps too, stays over on nights when I work.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and glance at Victor, noticing he hasn’t moved.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask, fishing my dead phone out of the console.

He rubs a hand through his damp hair, hesitation written all over his face. “I don’t know if I should, you know…”

“We both need to dry off and change clothes,” I say firmly, stepping out of the car, his hoodie still clinging to me, heavy with rain. “This is the least I can do—and then I’ll drive you back.”

A beat passes before I hear the click of his seatbelt, followed by the creak of the car door and the solid thud as he shuts it. I head for the porch, Victor trailing a few steps behind.

“You know,” he says, half-joking as he catches up, “I don’t normally go to a girl’s house the first time I meet her.”

I roll my eyes, tossing a hand in the air with a huff. “Yeah, okay, buddy.” I swat the joke away as we reach the door.

I slip a hand into my pocket for the key, but before I can find it, the door creaks open. My aunt and nephew step out, brushing past me before stopping short at the sight of Victor.

“So tall,” they say in unison, heads tilted back to take him in.

Victor flashes them a warm smile, and I quickly usher them back inside. “Alright, back in you go—and what did I tell you about touching the front door?” I scold gently, steering them toward the hallway.

When I glance back, Victor is still standing on the porch, watching me with that same unreadable look—like some vampire waiting for permission to cross the threshold.

“Do I need to invite you in so you can actually walk inside, or what?” I ask, an unintentional grin tugging at my lips.

He scoffs, a muffled laugh slipping out as he nods. “Yes, I can walk inside.”

As he finally steps past the threshold, I catch sight of his back—the faint outline of bandages showing beneath his torn, rain-soaked shirt. The sight lingers in my mind as I push the door shut behind us and turn the lock with a quiet click.