"What I used to do. Past tense."
"That’s what you said the other night. Why?"
I shouldn't tell him. He's a stranger. A temporary guest who'll be gone as soon as he's healed. But the words come anyway, pulled out by exhaustion and sadness.
"Burnout," I say quietly. "Understaffed wards. Patients dying because we didn't have enough hands, enough time, enough resources. I watched people suffer because the system was broken, and there was nothing I could do about it."
"So, you left."
"I couldn’t do it anymore. Besides, my grandma got sick, and it was easy to help out here while I cared for her. Then it was too hard to go back to broken systems that made me feel like a failure."
"I believe you."
The certainty in his voice surprises me. He says it like a fact, not comfort. Like he's assessed the situation and reached a conclusion.
"The bakery was my aunt's," I continue, not sure why I'm still talking. "She left it to me when she died. I thought... I don't know. I thought I could make something work here. Something that mattered."
His eyes narrow with a frown. "It does matter."
"The numbers say otherwise,” I say with a sigh.
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "You're drowning."
It's not a question. Just another fact.
I nod, unable to voice the confirmation because my throat tightened up unexpectedly.
"Let me help."
I laugh, the sound strangled. "You can lift your arm. How are you going to help?"
"I know people. I can make the bakery profitable."
Something cold slides down my spine. "What kind of people?"
His expression doesn't change. "The kind who enjoy baked goods. Who can put in large orders in advance for parties and things. The kind who can keep you safe."
"Safe from what?" she asks, her eyes alert with curiosity and suspicion.
"From whatever might come."
I stare at him. The tattoos covering his skin. The scars hidden beneath them. The way he moves like violence is a language he speaks fluently.
"What are you?" I ask quietly.
He could lie. I see him consider it, see the calculation in those winter-grey eyes. But he doesn't.
"Bratva."
The word hangs in the air between us. Fear tries and fails to break through my psyche. I’ve heard the stories about people like him. But I just feel tired.
"Of course you are."
"Does that change things?" He places his plate on the table between us, never taking his eyes from mine.
"I don't know." I sink back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "Should it?"
"Most people would say yes."
