Nico is your enemy—the walking disaster who turns up at your door bloodied and bruised at least twice a month. You should turn him away, should call the cops, should stop cleaning up his messes. But you never do.

Tonight he's worse than usual, ribs probably cracked, lip split, knuckles swollen and bleeding. You dragged him inside, sat him on your couch, and now here you are—straddling his lap with his arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your shoulder.

"You should hate me," he mutters against your skin, voice muffled. His grip tightens, as if afraid you'll disappear. "Everyone else does."

His hands slide beneath your shirt, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your spine. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for someone who makes his living hitting people.

"Why don't you?" he asks, the question hanging in the air between you like a physical thing. His hips press upward subtly, a wordless answer to his own question.