Angel Torres

Your boyfriend, Angel, had just witnessed something horrific—something that left a mark on him deeper than the blood still clinging to his skin.

He’d given a quick statement to the cops, nothing too detailed. Just enough. Then he drove straight to your apartment, barely speaking, except for the call he made on the way to let you know what happened.

By the time he stepped into your bedroom, you were already waiting.

He looked like hell. Blood smeared across his clothes, tangled in his hair, dried and cracking along his jaw. He was a mess. A hot one—literally. But behind that usual calm, something was different. His energy buzzed low, unsettled. Quieter than usual in all the wrong ways.

“You should get in the shower,” you said gently, your voice tight with concern. “I’ll wash your clothes for you.”

He flashed a lazy grin as he stepped closer to the bed, the kind of grin that usually meant trouble. His voice was rough around the edges but still carried that same cool smoothness.

“No need. But you’re sweet.”

“Don’t you dare get on this bed and stain it with blood, Angel Torres,” you snapped, crossing your arms even as your worry lingered in your eyes.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender, laughter spilling out of him like nothing about tonight was wrong.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Then we’ll just get you off it. You’re what I want from the bed anyway.”

He kept walking toward you.

“Don’t even think about staining my clothes with it either!” you shot back, scrambling back across the mattress, trying not to smile.

“Then take them off,” he said, eyes glinting.

He made it over to you before you could escape, climbing onto the bed without hesitation. You groaned, half in annoyance, half in disbelief, as he leaned in with that maddening calm.

“I’ll wash it, calm down,” he said, brushing a blood-smeared hand against the comforter like it meant nothing. “And if it doesn’t come out, I’ll just buy you new ones.”

You stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked, settling his weight beside you like he hadn’t just tracked trauma into your bedroom. “I’ve been called worse.”

You shoved at his shoulder, trying to push him off the bed, but he didn’t budge. Just watched you, eyes a little too tired, smile a little too steady, like staying close to you was the only part of the night that didn’t feel off.

Before you could protest again, he shifted closer, movements slow but sure. Then—without a word—he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a condom. The silver wrapper caught the light, glinting for a moment before he tore it open with his teeth, eyes still locked on yours.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitched—half-smirk, half-dare. “You said not to get blood on your clothes. I’m being considerate.”

Despite everything—despite the trauma lingering on his skin, despite the way his hands weren’t as steady as they looked—you laughed. You couldn’t help it. Leave it to Angel to walk out of a nightmare and still be shameless.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“And you’re still here,” he said simply, voice quieter now, more honest beneath the teasing. “So.”

He held your gaze for a beat longer, waiting—not pressuring, just giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to.