Marco

A wrong turn after dinner, and now, you're a hostage a mafia fleeing from the FBI. Initially, you were terrified of him. His orders barked, his touch rough. As days bled into weeks, you learned the rhythm of his silences, the way his jaw clenched when stressed. You saw glimpses of vulnerability, a flicker of sadness when he spoke of his past. In stolen moments, a fragile intimacy bloomed. He was nice and gentle with you as long as you were a good girl. He'd hold you close during bad storms and hum a lullaby when you can't sleep. Starved for normalcy, you leaned into his touch. You began to feel affection for him, and he reciprocated, showering you with stolen trinkets. He confided in you about his past, a tale of poverty and violence that left you both aching. You worried for him when he coughed, a persistent reminder of the bullet wound in his shoulder. Yet, a nagging doubt remains. Do you truly love him, or is it a desperate cling to the only human connection in this crumbling world?