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Saint always swore he wasn’t the type to fall.
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Said it like a warning.
Like it was some concrete law written in the streets.
“I don’t do attachment. I don’t do distractions. And I damn sure don’t do women who play with fire.”
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Cute.
But here’s the thing about men like Saint:
They don’t fall when you chase them.
They fall when they start chasing you—and don’t even realize it.
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So no, I didn’t bat my lashes or beg for attention.
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I hacked my way into his world.
Carefully. Quietly. Intentionally.
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First step? I became useful.
Not pretty. Not available. Not loud.
Useful.
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I cleaned up his digital messes before he even knew they existed.
Intercepted a hit order before it reached his ears.
Froze a backdoor wiretap planted on one of his warehouses and replaced it with a dead channel.
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Each time? I sent him proof. No names. No ego. Just results.
I became the whisper in the wires he couldn’t ignore.
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Second step? I stayed unavailable.
No thirst traps. No late-night confessions.
When he tried to corner me, I slipped through.
When he tested me, I passed—then vanished.
I let him stew in that space between power and curiosity.
And Saint? He hates not knowing things. Especially people.
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He’d call at 3AM just to ask,
“How’d you even find that?”
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I’d smile into the dark and say,
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
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Third step? I knew the ghosts in him.
The way he shut down when someone got too close.
The way he flinched at silence because it reminded him of being abandoned.
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I didn’t fix him.
I just didn’t fear the broken parts.
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One night, I sent him a file.
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Encrypted.
Inside was a folder labeled: “In Case You Forget Who You Are.”
Photos of him as a kid. A recording I pulled from a street cam of him stopping a fight before it got deadly.
Proof that somewhere inside that cold, polished kingpin was still a boy who cared.
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He didn’t call after that.
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But he showed up.
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At my door. Quiet. No guards. Just Saint.
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“I don’t like how you got in my head.”
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“Then why’d you come?”
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He didn’t answer. Just kissed me like he was mad about it.
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That’s when I knew.
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Saint didn’t fall in love with me because I was beautiful.
He fell because I understood his code.
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And I never asked him to be something he wasn’t.
I just showed him he could be more—if he wanted.
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And God help him…
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He did.
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Saint told me not to come over.
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So naturally, I picked the lock.
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I didn’t do it out of spite. Not really.
I did it because it’d been three days since I saw him.
Three days of unanswered texts, silence, and one-word replies that didn’t match the way he used to pull me in like gravity.
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Saint doesn’t ghost.
He retreats.
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And I don’t wait to be wanted.
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So I bypassed his front security like a polite criminal and slipped inside through the side entrance like I belonged there—which, in my defense, I kinda did.
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The first thing I noticed?
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His house was spotless.
Not just clean. Sterile. Perfect. Intentional.
Every knife on the magnetic strip was aligned at the same angle. The books on his shelf were color-coded and organized by height.
The rug was vacuumed in identical horizontal stripes. Like he’d measured it. Twice.
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I grinned.
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“You organize your cereal alphabetically too, or is that just for guests?”
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I said it out loud just as I dropped onto his couch with a bag of takeout I knew he’d pretend not to want.
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Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Controlled.
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He walked in shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, that gold chain catching the dim light like it had its own ego.
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He blinked once.
Twice.
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“Nova.”
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“You weren’t answering. So I let myself in.” I held up the bag. “Thai. Extra spicy. You’re welcome.”
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He stared at the coffee table.
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“You moved my coasters.”
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“I did. And I’m sitting on your remote. You gonna call the cops, or you gonna eat?”
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His jaw flexed. Annoyed. Irritated.
But then something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe. The kind he’d never admit to.
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He walked to the couch, took the food from my hand, and sat beside me.
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“You’re exhausting.”
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“You’re dramatic.”
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We ate in silence for a few minutes, until I reached for the remote and accidentally knocked over a magazine.
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Saint froze. I swear I saw panic flash across his face.
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He bent over, picking it up like it was made of glass, and repositioned it exactly two inches from the table edge. Lined up with the coaster I’d moved.
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“Saint,” I said gently, eyes locked on his.
“Is that why you’ve been distant?”
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He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the table, hands clasped together too tightly.
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“Everything’s loud lately,” he finally said.
Low. Almost embarrassed. “People, noise, mistakes. If one thing’s out of place, it feels like everything is.”
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That was the first time he ever told me something without being forced.
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So I leaned back and slid the magazine two inches to the right. Out of line. Deliberate.
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He looked at me, breath tight, like he was waiting for his skin to itch.
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“You don’t have to keep it together with me,” I said.
“I’m chaos too. Let’s match.”
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And then, out of nowhere, he laughed.
Not a full one. Just a half-chuckle, almost like it surprised him.
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“You really broke into my house just to mess with my coasters and make me eat noodles?”
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“No. I broke in because I missed your stupid face.”
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He smiled. For real this time.
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And as we sat there, legs tangled, remote buried somewhere under me, the magazine still crooked on the table…
Saint let himself lean into me.
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Not because he was ready.
But because I was already home.
