"This is Y/N's, please leave a message after the beep," it was maybe the sixth time I had heard of that coming from my phone. She wasn't picking up, though I could here her phone ringing from the inside of her house. Is she playing tricks on me? Even so, I'm going in.

The door creaks open as I walk cautiously into the dimly lit foyer. The air is thick with the noxious scent of gas like a punch to my guts, causing my senses to prickle.

"Y/N? Are you here?" I know she is, but she's not responding either.

My heart races as I move deeper into the house, my instincts screaming at me to find her, to find out what's wrong, why she's not picking up any of my calls. As my eyes scan the disarray of overturned furniture and shattered vases strewn about, as if a whirlwind tore through the once tidy space. I her call out again.

With each step, the smell of gas grows stronger, urging my pace to quicken. And then I see her, lying on the kitchen floor, battered and still. The source of the odor becomes apparent, as my lungs burn with the sensation.

"Y/n," My voice cracks as I rushto her side, shaking her gently, desperation clawing at my chest. But she only lets out a weak whimper, barely conscious.

With trembling hands, I scoop her up and carry her out of the house, the gas fumes threatening to overwhelm me. Just as I placed her in my car, a defeaning explosion rocks the neighborhood. The force of the blast rocks the car, but I let myself be a human shield for y/n doesn't get hurt anymore than she already has.

The scent of gas clings to her clothes like a toxic cloud, as I drive her back to one of my place, somewhere she could be safe. Whit my heart still racing from the close call, I gently help her inside and onto the lid of the toilet, her body limp and vulnerable.

I quickly gather supplies to tend to her wounds, my hands shaking with a mixture of fear and determination. As I clean her up, I whisper words of reassurance, promising her safety and comfort.

"You're safe now. Nothing can hurt you anymore," I murmur, pressing tender kisses to her forehead between each soothing word.

Under the warm spray of the shower, I carefully wash away the grime and blood, my touch gentle yet firm. With each stroke of the cloth, I feel a sense of relief wash over me, knowing that she is in my care, that I can protect her from whatever dangers may come our way.

And as I hold her close, enveloped in the warmth of the water and the comfort of each other's presence, I vow to never let her face the darkness alone again.

After tending to her wounds and comforting her, I guide her to the bed. She leans heavily against me, her strength depleted from the ordeal.

With careful movements, I help her settle into the soft embrace of the bed, tucking the blankets around her gently and with deep concern. As she sinks into the pillows, I sit beside her, my presence a reassuring keeping her still and calm.

"You rest now, moya iyubov," I murmur softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "I'll be right here beside you."

Her eyes flutter closed, exhaustion pulling her into the embrace of sleep. I watch over her for a moment longer, a sense of protectiveness swelling within me.

And as she drifts into peaceful slumber, I slowly pull away from her, leaving the warmth on my spot empty and soon to be cold.

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