Everyone froze. Even Rocco's cigarette paused mid-burn like it didn't want the smoke anymore.
The half-conscious man.
He was still on my couch-turned-operating-table, pale, stitched up, and probably high as hell on whatever Rocco pumped into him. But that voice? That rasp? Yeah, that was a voice used to being obeyed. A voice that sounded like it belonged to a man who had ordered gunfire before coffee.
My eyes met his for a split second.
He looked… wrecked. Bruised. Bleeding. Half-alive. But conscious. Barely. And judging by the wild glint in his silver colored eyes, absolutely done with the clown circus happening in my living room.
I didn't say anything.
I just sat on the floor like a cat that had wandered into an alien drug ring and was now regretting everything.
The chaos didn't pick up again.
Instead, a few hours passed in this weird, oddly efficient kind of quiet.
I'd changed into fresh clothes somewhere in the middle of it. Stared into my bathroom mirror for a solid twenty minutes trying to reassemble the shredded jigsaw puzzle of my dignity.
Came out to find Rocco elbows-deep in his "stabilization" process, which, I guess, was what doctors did post-surgery. Checking vitals. Administering fluids. Monitoring Kieran's breathing. Muttering things like "His BP's low. Push another 500ml," while flipping a bloody notebook that looked suspiciously like it had once been a menu.
Meanwhile, Kyle had been sent to the store after I emotionally blackmailed him with an Oscar-worthy speech about "you broke into my apartment, you can at least replace my cereal and maybe buy me ice cream and actual bread, you monsters."
To my surprise… he actually went.
And when he returned?
He brought four different cereals. Along with other necessary things like my damn toilet paper too.
Rocco and I made eye contact as Kyle dumped the bags on the floor and grumbled something about coupons.
I nodded slowly.
"Proud of him," Rocco said solemnly.
And then, finally… somehow… we ended up at my tiny coffee table again.
The same table that had hosted a bullet extraction and what I'm pretty sure was a human kidney on a napkin just hours ago.
Now? It hosted three cups of ramen.
Mine had extra seasoning because why not?
We didn't talk much. Rocco was still moving between bites and Kieran, checking his temperature, adjusting tubes, making notes. Kyle was slumped across from me with a forehead vein that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else but also that he was oddly comfortable being annoyed here.
I took a bite of my noodles.
Salt.
Warmth.
Sanity? Still MIA.
But for a second, it felt like… peace.
Which was precisely why my brain picked that moment to give out on me.
One blink, I was upright.
The next?
My face was in my arms on the table, dead asleep like a laptop that overheated.
Rocco's voice drifted faintly through my dreams: "Let her rest. She deserves at least twenty minutes of blissful unconsciousness before we tell her the cops might be tracking us."
What?
"Rocco."
"Kidding," he said. "Sort of."
And then… blackness.
•°•°•°•°
I woke up with my cheek glued to the wooden table, the sticky scent of soy sauce clinging to my skin like a bad decision. My neck ached, my back was yelling, and I could still taste cup ramen in my mouth. For one glorious second, I thought I'd dreamed it all, the gun, the blood, the strange men in my apartment.
And then I smelled it.
Burning.
My eyes flew open just in time to see a sad, wheezing puff of smoke curl its way out of the kitchen.
No. No no no—not the rice cooker.
I shot up, heart hammering, and stumbled across the apartment, nearly tripping over a suspiciously bloody rag. My feet smacked against the floor as I burst into the kitchen.
There he was.
Kyle.
Crouched in front of my rice cooker like a caveman discovering fire, aggressively jabbing it with a spoon and muttering to himself.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I shouted.
He barely looked up. "Your rice cooker's fake."
I blinked at him, my eye twitching. "Your brain is fake."
He frowned, like I'd offended him. "Then why's it smoking like it's in a bad breakup?"
I smacked the spoon out of his hand. "Step away from her. That rice cooker cost me half a paycheck and my dignity."
From the living room, a familiar voice called out, laughing, "Told you to leave it alone, man. I already ordered breakfast."
I turned. And of course, of course, there was Rocco. Legs crossed on my couch like he paid rent, one hand flicking through his phone.
"You did what?" I asked, incredulous.
"Breakfast burritos. And coffee." He flashed a charming little smile. "You're welcome, darling."
"You ordered food—on my account?" I stared at him, arms flailing slightly.
Rocco just shrugged, like we were old roommates. "Get used to it, sunshine. You've been adopted."
I groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Full-on movie scene.
My eyes slid toward the couch where the injured man was still knocked out, stitched and drugged and somehow even more intimidating while unconscious.
And then it hit me.
I gasped.
"SHIT." Work.
I bolted for my room, nearly tripping over one of my throw pillows that definitely wasn't there last night. "I can't be late again—"
I slammed my bedroom door shut and leaned against it, heart racing.
Three grown men.
One bullet wound.
A rice cooker that may never recover.
But at least they restocked my fridge a little and toilet papers.
I slid down to the floor and stared at nothing.
What kind of cosmic joke was this?
And how long was I gonna survive it?
~~~
Ten days later, I finally had enough.
Ten long, chaotic, nerve-wrecking days passes before I finally snapped.
On the outside, I was normal. Functioning. Professional. Smiling at work, answering phones, nodding along to Aaron small talks during our sneaky moments and one dinner outside work, like I didn't have a gun-toting twink melting cheese on my stove every morning and a smug bastard of a doctor using my favorite dish towel to clean his tools.
But on the inside?
I was rotting. Peeling like a banana in a microwave.
Because not only did they leave their half-dead buddy on my couch but every day, they came back to 'care' for him.
Rocco, chipper as hell. Kyle, with at least one new hole burned in his shirt every time. And Kieran, which I finally learned was his name was, got more mouthy and commanding from the couch like he was the king of my apartment and I was just the confused peasant he'd graciously allowed to live here.
He started sitting up more. Drinking water and eating like he wasn't stitched up just a few days ago. Barking things like "lower the blinds" or "change the channel" or "tell your nosy neighbor to stop looking through the peephole or Kyle's gonna make her blink funny."
And now, ten days later, I'd hit my limit.
On the lovely Saturday morning, I sat cross-legged on the floor, my arms folded on the coffee table, glaring up at the Godfather of Couchland.
Kieran sat with one arm draped along the backrest, a blanket around his shoulders like some sexy war veteran slash cult leader. His hair was messy in that perfectly tousled, I-survived-a-bullet way. His jaw was sharp. His stare sharper.
He looked like sin.
And I wanted to kick-drop him.
Rocco was perched on my one surviving dining chair, swirling a glass of juice like it was wine, pink gloves on. Kyle was sprawled on the floor nearby, trying to balance a spoon on his nose and failing like it was a full-time job.
I cleared my throat. No one reacted. I coughed louder.
Kieran finally looked at me. "Yes, Princess?"
"Don't call me that," I deadpanned, then took a breath. "When are you and your little cult planning on leaving?"
Kyle let the spoon clatter to the floor. "Rude."
I held my ground. My spine was jelly but my tone was steel. "I've been patient. I've let this circus happen. I even forgave Rocco for using my eyeliner as surgical markings."
"Look, the tip was—"
"WHEN," I said louder, "are you all taking your trouble and leaving my apartment? I've done enough for you right? I let you crash here long enough for to recover so I think it's time for you to leave."
Kieran stared at me for a moment.
Then leaned forward slightly, the blanket slipping down to reveal the black T-shirt stretched over his stitched-up torso.
"I'm not leaving."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
He said it again. Calm. Final. Like he wasn't telling me—he was declaring it.
"I'm not going anywhere, princess."
Kyle made a tada gesture behind him like Kieran had just announced he was king of England. Rocco sipped his juice dramatically.
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
Because—what? What did that mean?
I sputtered. "You—You can't just decide that."
"I already did."
"You don't live here!"
"I do now."
What?