Page 5 of Enzo

“Five for every visit after that.”

Rio and Jamie exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. “We’ll help.”

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“We’ll help you,” Rio snapped. “But as soon as he’s okay to leave, he needs to be gone.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” I said immediately.

Rio shifted his stance, jaw tightening as his gaze slid toward the front of the garage. “You feel that, Enzo?” he muttered. “If he’s in here, and someone wants him, then trouble’s circling. I don’t like that kind of attention coming anywhere near Jamie.”

Jamie frowned. “Why are you saying that as if I’m the one you need to worry about?”

Rio placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Because I’m always worried about you.”

“Well fuck you,” Jamie snapped, though the heat in his tone didn’t quite hide the crack underneath. “It’s not like I’m gonna get triggered and burn Redcars to the ground.”

“That’s not what I meant, J,” Rio said with a sigh, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake.”

“We’re not throwing the kid out on the street,” Jamie continued, voice hardening.

Enzo didn’t speak, but the words settled deep in his chest. First, the victim might look young, messed up and vulnerable, but he wasn’t a kid. And second? No one was touching the man on the bed. No one was throwing him out. He’d found sanctuary here, and that meantsomething. It meanteverything. He was theirs now—wounded, terrified, silent—but theirs to look out for. And Enzo would make damn sure that whatever had broken him never got close again.

“We got this,” Jamie said firmly. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only quiet certainty, as though they’d already made up their mind not to let me carry this alone.

“That’s… if he survives,” I whispered. My voice shook this time; all the bravado I’d tried to carry drained away. My fingers clenched tight in the bloodstained towel still clutched in my hands.

Please survive.

It was a little past midday when he woke up, and his gray eyes flared wide with panic. For a second, he stared—unable to piece together the room or how he’d ended up in it. Then his gaze shot straight to me, and terror detonated in him.

His breathing hitched, fast and sharp, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. His eyes darted to the room’s corners, tracking shadows as if he expected someone else to lunge from the dark. His fingers clenched on the blanket, twisted tight like he was ready to rip it away and bolt—but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Every tiny shift in movement came with a wince or a sharp, broken breath. He was too weak to run, too battered to fight, and he knew it. The moment that realization hit him, something snapped behind his eyes.

I wasn’t a comforting sight—big, broad, covered in ink, with oil-streaked jeans and my spare scarlet shirt that didn’t hide the stains from my last shift in the garage. My face probably didn’t help either, thanks to the fresh scratches slashed across my cheek. I wasn’t just a stranger to him — I was a threat. Someone stronger, bigger, and in control of the room. His ribs rose and fell like a trapped animal’s, and the more I tried to hold still and look non-threatening, the worse his panic got.

He shifted again, one hand curling over his side and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could disappear. I could see how badly he wanted to vanish as if he believed if he stayed perfectly still, maybe I’d forget he was there.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see how his fingers dug deeper into the blanket, his entire body curling in on itself as if he could shrink away from me.

“Don’t,” he whimpered, his voice barely more than a breath. His gaze flicked toward the door, then back to me, eyes wide and glassy with fear. “Don’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but I filled in the rest.

Don’t hurt me.

“No one knows you’re here, just me and my friends.”

He winced at that, his face twisting like I’d struck him. Was it the wordfriends? Or was it the idea there was more than just me—more strangers he couldn’t see, people he couldn’t predict or protect himself from? His fingers twitched in the blanket, curling tighter. His breath quickened.

We didn’t have ice chips, but Rio had rigged up a water bottle with a straw, and I inched closer, slowly, until he could swallow some water. The second he saw me move, panic flared in his eyes. He whimpered and tried to inch away, trembling, the movement jerky and pained. Every shift made him sob, the sound raw and broken, and his gaze was unfocused and wild.

“It’s okay,” I murmured on repeat, trying to keep my voice low and calm. “It’s just water. You need to drink. I promise it’s just water.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight, terror stealing his breath. I could see it—he wanted to believe me, but fear had its claws too deep.

“You need to drink,” I repeated, holding the bottle up so he could see the clear liquid. “No tricks. Just water. You’re safe now.”

He stared at the bottle, blinking fast, and then—so slowly it broke my heart—he let me bring it close. He sipped once, then again, tiny, desperate gulps like he didn’t believe the water would still be there if he waited too long.

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