In Too Deep

She couldn’t remember when it started. Not the day, not the time, not even what she’d been wearing.

But she could tell you one thing for sure—it was a bad day.

She’d come straight home from her brother’s place, her mood already wrecked by the mess he’d dragged them both into. On that day, she was actually glad their parents were dead.

If they’d seen what their son had become, it would have broken them. He wasn’t just making mistakes—he was drowning. Debts, threats, the house slipping through his fingers.

She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to shake him and ask why Grant couldn’t be the one to help her for once.

He was her big brother. Wasn’t he supposed to clean up her messes, not the other way around? He was supposed to protect her from trouble, not drag her into it.

She still shivered when she remembered coming home to find her front door unlocked. Her first thought was to call the police.

But she didn’t. She wasn’t scared enough to get the neighbors involved—mostly, she was just confused.

Had she forgotten to lock the door? That would have been easier. At least then, it would have been her fault.

But she couldn’t remember.

Bravery didn’t run in her family, but right then, she was more worried about what might get stolen. There were things she couldn’t replace and things she’d thought about selling to help Grant pay off his debts.

She stepped inside—darkness everywhere. The silence was thick.

As she crept forward, a cold, crawling feeling started to settle in her bones. The silence was the worst part.

The first time Nova saw him, she screamed.

A man she’d never seen before was sprawled across her couch, dark, wet hair hiding his face. Panic clawed at her chest when she saw the blood—so much blood—soaking his white shirt, especially on the right side of his stomach.

Blood had dripped onto the floor, leaving a trail to the couch. She almost felt worse for her ruined couch and the brown curtain stained with red.

It took her a minute to process what she was seeing. Then she gasped, panic rising even higher. Nova edged closer, just an inch, scanning the stranger from head to toe. She stared at his chest, watching for the slow rise and fall that meant he was still alive.

But barely. His breathing was slow.

She took a long look at him. His clothes were dark except for the white button-up shirt. His jeans and the jacket tossed on the floor were both black.

His shirt sleeves were short, and tattoos covered his arms all the way up to his neck. Even his knuckles were inked.

He looked exactly like the kind of guy whose face would be on a wanted poster at the police station. Nova was sure of it. That thought did nothing to calm her down.

If anything, her legs felt like jelly, and she was so dizzy she thought she might throw up from all the blood.

If she’d called the police right then, maybe her life would have gone back to normal. But instead, she moved closer, hands shaking, and reached out to touch him.

He was burning up. That made her lift his shirt, and she let out a shaky breath when she saw the gunshot wound.

No one would believe she didn’t know him. How else could she explain a bleeding stranger in her house? She didn’t even know how he’d gotten in.

And if the police started digging, they’d look into her life. They’d look into her family. Into Grant.

So, no police. Nova reached into the man’s pockets and found his phone. No password.

She thought about calling someone from his contacts—someone who could keep him alive, because she was sure he wouldn’t last another thirty minutes.

But scrolling through his recent calls, her fear only grew. None of the names sounded safe.

No Kevin. No Ben. Just The Owl, Razor, Bullet, Shadow, Skullcrusher. Not exactly the kind of people Nova wanted in her living room.

Even if he was dying, she wasn’t calling any of them. She decided right then that the stranger in her house was not a good man.

He was a criminal. Maybe a gangster, maybe mafia. Why else would he have a gunshot wound? He was probably on the run, and her house just happened to be the closest place to hide.

A hospital was out of the question.

Nova was emotional. She cried at everything, which was why she couldn’t just stand there and watch him die, whether he was a good guy or a bad guy. He wasn’t going to die in her living room.

Six months of med school finally paid off. Even though she’d dropped out, she managed to get the bullet out and stitch him up.

Being that close, she finally saw his face. It was sharp and rugged.

His nose was straight and dramatic, like a knife. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him, and she caught herself holding her breath.

His features were hard, his lips full and red, his jaw shadowed with dark stubble. She found herself wishing he’d open his eyes, just so she could see what color they were—if they were as beautiful as the rest of him.

Realizing she was getting a little too interested, Nova backed away after making sure he was still breathing.

With that thought, she grabbed her first aid kit and slipped into her room, heading straight for the bathroom. The shower was hot and quick, but it took forever to scrub away the bloodstains.

She remembered leaving the bathroom, sitting on the edge of her bed, and then—nothing. Sleep must have snuck up on her, because the next thing she knew, hours had passed.

When Nova woke up, the stranger was gone. The only proof he’d ever been there was the smear of blood on her couch. If not for that, she might have convinced herself she’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nova should have wished harder to never see him again.

But less than three weeks later, he showed up at her door, passed out and bleeding from another gunshot wound.

And just like that, it became a thing.