There was blood on his shirt when he walked in.
Not his.
Aaria was already awake, curled in the oversized armchair by the window, wrapped in a blanket, the city glowing behind her.
She looked up. Eyes met.
"Yours?" she asked softly.
He shook his head.
"Then who?"
Rafael dropped into the chair opposite her, elbows on his knees, hands blood-stained, jaw tight.
"I found the number. The man who called you."
Her heart kicked. "And?"
"He didn't say it on his own."
She waited.
"It was… arranged. Someone higher up paid him. Clean job. No trail."
"But you got to him."
A pause.
"Barely."
She nodded, understanding more in what he didn't say.
Rafael Viera wasn't just angry.
He was unraveling.
Not because of the threat.
But because for the first time, he couldn't control it.
Later that night, Aaria found him in the shower.
The water ran hot and red-tinged, blood still washing off his hands.
But it wasn't the blood that shattered her.
It was the way he stood—shoulders sagged, head bowed, as if the weight of her was becoming too much.
Not a burden. A fear.
He didn't look up when she entered. Didn't speak when she stepped into the water with him.
She reached for his wrist.
He flinched.
"Rafael…"
His breath caught.
"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely. "And I don't know who I'll become if I do."
Her hands slid to his face. Forced him to look at her.
"You won't lose me," she said. "But you need to stop fighting like you're alone."
He stared at her like she was something holy.
"I don't know how."
"Then let me teach you."
She kissed him there, beneath the steam and the fear.
Slow. Deep. Healing.
This wasn't lust.
This was survival.
That night, he didn't make love to her like a man trying to own her.
He touched her like someone desperate to be held back together.
And for the first time, Rafael Viera let himself fall apart in someone else's arms.
And Aaria?
She didn't just catch him.
She claimed him.