Chapter Text
You can’t help the sigh that escapes you when you finally flip the Closed sign by the front door of your flower shop, signaling the end of an incredibly busy day. You don’t usually receive large rush orders like the one you worked on today, but your client’s insistence on extravagant floral arrangements for his high-profile event kept you on your feet from dawn to dusk. Your more artistic types of clients tended to be pretty particular to say the least, but Rafayel? He was something else entirely. He had walked in a few days ago, in a flurry of dramatic hand gestures, and declared that only you could bring his new exhibit to life. You had listened to him ramble about what he had been envisioning and by the time he had left, he had drained you of more than half of your inventory and left you scrambling to put the arrangements together in time for his event
Rolling your shoulders back to ease the stiffness in them, you gather the last of the day’s trash in a bag and push open the back door, stepping into the cool night. The alley is quiet, as it typically is at this time, the flickering street lamps casting shuddering shadows against the brick walls.
As you approach the dumpster, you stop in your tracks.
A figure is slumped against the wall. The man is half-concealed in the shadows, his tall figure blending into the dim-lit alley. The fabric of his shirt clings to his broad frame, but it’s not the impressive build that catches your attention. It’s the way he has a hand pressed against his side, dark liquid soaking his shirt.
The sight makes your stomach drop. Blood.
Instinct tells you to flee back to your shop, lock the door, and pretend you saw nothing. But before you can react, his head tilts upwards and his eyes flick open.
His heavy-lidded gaze locks on yours, sharp and all too aware despite his condition. You freeze in place, your fingers tightening on the bag you’re holding.
For a second, neither of you move. Then he exhales, slow and measured, voice rough but tinged with amusement. “Wasn’t expecting an audience.”
You hesitate. It’s not your problem. Walk away.
But then your gaze shifts to his blood-soaked shirt again. You drop the trash bag and step closer. “You’re hurt.”
His lips twitch upwards. “Yeah, well. Happens.”
You crouch beside him. “Oh, my God,” you mutter under your breath. “You need a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” he says immediately, too fast, too firm.
Alarms go off in your head. No one in their right mind would refuse a hospital if they didn’t have anything to hide. The downtown district of Skyhaven is a busy area, but it was also prone to its fair share of crime. You never thought much of it. You never needed to.
You glance over his features—bright amethyst eyes, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips parted from the strain of keeping himself upright. Even now, slumped against the wall and bleeding, he looks dangerous. And unfairly attractive.
Which makes this an even worse idea.
“You’re making yourself sound more and more suspicious by the second.”
His smirk is faint. “You can just walk away, you know. I won’t take it personally.”
You huff, scanning the alley. You should do just that. This isn’t your problem. There’s no one else here, no sign of who might have left him like this. If you leave him here, his wound might just get worse.
Sometimes, you wonder if trying to be a good person is worth the potential trouble.
You shift on your heels. “Can you stand?”
He gives you a long look, then, slowly, shifts. His breathing is slightly ragged as he braces against the wall, testing how much strength he has left. By the looks of it, not much.
“I’ll take that as a no,” you say. “My store is just a few feet away. Let’s get you inside.”
He doesn’t fight you as slip your body under his and hoist him up. He’s heavier than you expected, all solid muscle under the ruined shirt, and you have to adjust your stance to keep your balance.
He exhales sharply, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as you guide him through the back door and into your shop. His eyes briefly scan the store as you bring him over to the couch in the storage room and ease him down carefully.
He sinks into the cushions with a low groan, his head tipping back against the armrest. The dim lighting inside your shop softens the hard lines on his face, but it does nothing to mask the exhaustion settling in his features.
You exhale, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. The first-aid kit is upstairs. You hesitate for a second before moving toward the door that leads to the staircase. Normally, you wouldn't leave a stranger alone in your shop, especially one who looks like he could snap your neck without breaking a sweat at full strength. But he isn't in any shape to go anywhere.
"I'll be right back," you say. "Don't move."
He raises his eyebrow. "I don’t really think I’m for a jog right now, Sunshine."
You shake your head and make your way upstairs to your apartment, flicking on the light as you step inside.
It's small but cozy. It had a kitchenette, a modest living room, and a bedroom and ensuite bathroom tucked in the back. It smells faintly of fresh flowers, the scent drifting up from the shop below.
You grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink and make your way back downstairs. Your brother, Zayne, is a cardiac surgeon at Akso Hospital in Linkon City. He knows how prone you are to minor accidents in the shop, and he's made sure you have more medical supplies than most people would think necessary.
Caleb's eyes are closed when you return, but they flicker open at the sound of your footsteps.
"You still with me?" you ask.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. "Still alive and kicking."
You kneel in front of the couch, popping the kit open. "You got a name?"
He studies you for a few seconds, as if debating whether to answer. "Caleb."
“Well, Caleb, I need to see how bad your injury is. I can try to disinfect the wound and stitch it up if I have to. It will probably hurt a little bit.”
His fingers catch your wrist before you can touch his shirt. His grip is firm yet loose, more like a warning than a restraint.
You glance up, meeting his unreadable, unwavering gaze. After a beat, his fingers loosen, falling away.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “Let’s get it over with. Just try not to look too impressed.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m sure I’ll manage,” you say.
You exhale through your nose, steadying yourself as you reach for a pair of scissors. The ruined material peels away from his skin, revealing the full extent of the wound. It’s deep, but not fatal. Not if you clean and stitch it properly. It’s not just the fresh injury that catches your attention. There are old scars scattered across his torso, some jagged, others more precise. You swallow and force yourself to focus.
Grabbing a clean cloth, you pour antiseptic onto it before pressing it against his side. Caleb hisses through his teeth, but doesn’t flinch. You catch the way his jaw tightens and his fingers curl slightly against the couch.
You focus on keeping your touch firm and careful as you clean the wound, despite the way your heart keeps pounding against your ribcage. “You really should get this checked out by a doctor. At a hospital.”
“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “No hospitals.”
Your frown deepens, but you let it go. “Then maybe try not to get this roughed up. It’ll do wonders for your health,” you quip.
His quiet chuckle is breathy. “Not really an option in my line of work, but I’ll take it under advisement.”
You pause momentarily, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not your business. You reach for the sutures, threading the needle with practiced precision before glancing up at him. “Alright. Try not to move.”
“Don’t worry, Sunshine,” he drawls, resting his arm across the back of the couch. “I’ll be good for you.”
You bite back a sigh and press the first stitch into his skin.
His body tenses. His jaw clenches. But he doesn’t make a sound.
You work quickly, stitching the wound closed with steady hands. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his muscles taut with barely restrained pain. He doesn’t move. He just watches you, gaze unreadable.
“You’re good at this,” he finally murmurs.
You huff, tying off the last stitch. “My brother’s a doctor. Besides, you’re not the first reckless idiot I’ve had to patch up.”
His brows lift slightly and his lips curve. “Should I be offended?”
“Probably.” You press a gauze pad over the stitches and wrap a bandage tightly around his torso, securing it in place. “You’re lucky the wound wasn’t deeper.”
Caleb lets out a slow breath as you sit back on your heels, wiping your hands clean. “I’ve had worse.”
You give him a pointed look, your eyes flickering over the old scars again before you meet his gaze. “Yeah, I got that impression. You always this bad at avoiding sharp objects?”
He chuckles. “What can I say? I have a talent for pissing off people with nasty tempers.”
“Clearly,” you mutter, packing away the supplies. “Well, try not to add any new injuries to your impressive collection while you’re here tonight. You should rest. You lost a lot of blood.”
Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You’re letting me stay?”
You cross your arms, arching a brow. “Unless you’d rather crawl back into the alley and pass out in the street?”
His smirk widens, slow and lazy. “Tempting offer, but I think I’ll accept your hospitality, Sunshine.”
You roll your eyes and push yourself to your feet. “Great, I’m heading to bed now. Try not to bleed out on my couch. I really don’t want to have to deal with a corpse in the morning.”
He lets out a short laugh, but there’s something softer about it this time, something less guarded. “And here I thought you were a sweet Samaritan.”
“Go to sleep, Caleb.”
You flick off the light in the back room. Caleb doesn’t say anything as you turn toward the stairs, but you can still feel his gaze on you.
You ignore it.
**
When you wake, the first thing you notice is the early morning light filtering through your window. Looking at your phone tells you you’ve woken up 45 minutes earlier than your usual 7 am alarm.
You throw on a sweater over your night clothes and make your way down to the shop, half expecting to Caleb still passed out on the couch.
The faint scent of coffee lingers in the air, and you stare at the empty couch where Caleb had been the night prior. The blanket you kept on the couch was folded neatly over the armrest, the first-aid kit still sitting where you had left it.
No sign of him though.
Your eyes catch a pink slip of paper resting beside your coffee maker.
Helped myself to some coffee. Hope you don’t mind. Thanks for the stitches, Sunshine. Try not to miss me too much.
You exhale, shaking your head.
He’s gone, and you tell yourself you’re relieved.