The wound on Manolo's side was worse than he let on. Blood soaked through his shirt, and even though he brushed it off as "a scratch," I could see how deep it really was. I don't know how he was still sitting upright, let alone keeping up the smug attitude that practically radiated off him. But he was in pain, no question about it. That hardened look in his eyes could only hide so much.

I took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the slight tremor in my hands. This whole situation felt surreal. Manolo had barged into my house like it was his god-given right, bleeding everywhere and demanding I let him stay here. And despite every instinct screaming at me to say no, to call the police, to do something other than sit here like a deer in headlights—I was still here, helping him.

"Better?" I asked, my voice sounding far weaker than I wanted.

He didn't look at me. "Better enough," he muttered, shifting back against the cushions with a dismissive air.

The way he said it, like he was doing me a favor by letting me tend to him, made my stomach twist. This was all wrong. How had I ended up here, taking care of this guy who clearly didn't care if I lived or died?

My eyes drifted back to the gun on the table, a reminder of how easily he could have forced me into this. Not that I needed much forcing; I'd caved the second he'd implied any real threat. Pathetic, maybe. But I wasn't cut out for this kind of thing. I wasn't a fighter or a hero. I was just trying to get by and pay off my debts, and now, thanks to this...whatever this was, my quiet life was looking further out of reach.

My eyes drifted back to the couch and I mentally groaned to myself, already knowing removing the blood stain was going to be a pain in the ass.

Noticing my stare, Manolo's dark eyes focused on me. "What?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

I hoped he would drop it, but of course, he didn't. "Speak what's on your mind, man. I don't bite." He paused. "Unless you give me a reason to."

Somehow, I didn't believe that.

I didn't know much about Manolo, but he was a Raymond and anybody with half a brain knew better than to take a Raymond's word as fact.

"Come on," he pushed. "Are you keeping some big secret, or..."

"Or what?" I sighed, already craving for him to leave.

"You're scared of me," he accused.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation kicking in, but I shook my head. "No, I'm scared your blood will stain my couch."

He blinked a few times and then a shadow of a smile broke out on his face. "I'll buy you a new one."

He spoke casually as if buying a whole new couch was no big deal. Maybe it wasn't, for someone like him. But for me? I'd been rationing out what little cash I had to get through each month. The idea of just replacing something as expensive as a couch, no questions asked, was a luxury I couldn't fathom.

"Right," I muttered. "How did you end up in this situation anyway?"

A silence fell over us and he stared at me blankly. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer like my question was so far beneath him it didn't even deserve a response. His gaze sharpened, then drifted away, focused somewhere beyond the four walls of my living room, as if he were trying to piece together how he'd gotten himself into this mess.

"Does it matter?" he finally replied, voice low and almost... distant. He shrugged, in an attempt to look casual, but I could see right through it. "Things go south sometimes."

"South?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow. "That's it? Just... things go south?"

He met my eyes, his own holding a glint of warning. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who looks like he'd rather not be involved."

I bit back my next words, reminded of that gun on the table and the fact that, for all his injuries, he was still dangerous.

"Dropping it," I mumbled, leaning back in my chair as the urge to close my eyes returned.

"You look like you're about to pass out," Manolo observed, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. "Can't handle a little blood?"

I scowled, though I was too tired to make it convincing. "It's not the blood. Just... not exactly how I planned to spend my night, you know?"

He shrugged, unfazed. "Plans change."

Yeah, tell me about it.

I let out a long breath, glancing at the clock. I should've been asleep hours ago, not sitting here trying to pretend I wasn't terrified of the man bleeding out on my couch. I knew if I tried to sleep now I wouldn't be able to though. Not with Manolo here. I was too alert.

"What's your deal, anyway?" he asked suddenly.

"My... deal?" I echoed, thrown off by the sudden shift.

"Yeah. You're in deep with my brother, that much is clear. But you don't look like the usual crowd he pulls in." He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made my skin crawl. "So, what's your story? Drugs? Gambling? Alcohol?"

"Do I look like a drug addict to you?" I questioned, my words having more bite than before.

I wasn't sure why I was letting his words get to me.

"No," he said slowly, eyeing me. "But people do stupid shit when they hit rock bottom and you look desperate."

I clenched my jaw, refusing to let his words sink in. "I'm not desperate," I argued, though I wasn't sure I believed it myself. If I wasn't desperate, I wouldn't have ended up tangled up with his brother in the first place.

"Sure," he said, clearly unconvinced. He leaned back, adjusting himself against the cushions, wincing slightly. "If it makes you feel better."

I didn't respond. I just let the silence stretch between us. In the stillness, I could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each second dragging out longer than the last. My gaze drifted back to Manolo, who was staring at the ceiling, his face a mix of fatigue and something darker, something unreadable.

"Why are you here?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

He looked over, raising an eyebrow. "Thought we went over this. Got a little banged up, needed a place to lay low."

"Yeah, but why here? Why my place?" I couldn't help but wonder if this was some sort of sick joke, a punishment his brother had orchestrated just to watch me squirm. "You don't even know me."

"Maybe that's exactly why I came here," he said, his tone nonchalant but his eyes watching me carefully like he was measuring my reaction. "You're a nobody. Safe. Nobody's looking for me here."

"Glad to know I'm so forgettable."

He let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "If you were anything other than forgettable, you'd be in even worse trouble with my brother."

"Thanks for the heads up," I muttered, crossing my arms. "So what's the plan then? You just crash here until you're all patched up and then leave?"

"Pretty much," he replied, closing his eyes as if that was the end of it. "Don't worry. I don't plan to be your roommate."

I swallowed the urge to snap back, to tell him that wasn't the issue. I wasn't exactly worried about losing him as a house guest. I was worried about what happened when he left, about what would happen if he didn't leave soon enough. About the mess he'd leave behind—and not just the blood on the couch.

But what could I do? I was in no position to kick him out, and despite everything, some stubborn part of me couldn't turn my back on someone bleeding and hurt, even if that someone was a Raymond.

Another stretch of silence fell over us, and I could feel myself sagging under the weight of exhaustion. I was too tired to keep up the bravado, too tired to keep playing this game with him.

"Get some sleep," he said suddenly, his voice softer, almost like an order. "I'm not going anywhere tonight."

I glanced at him, feeling my guard slip just a little. He looked away, fixing his gaze somewhere over my shoulder. "I'll be here when you wake up."

That was the furthest thing from reassuring.

"I'm okay."

He seemed almost amused by my words and shrugged. "Suit yourself. Do you have a TV?"

I stared at him for a minute and he did the same as if to say he was being completely serious. Instead of responding immediately, I placed my face into the palms of my hands and sighed.

This was going to be a long few days.