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Chapter 9 - Win me Over

Guilt crashes over Neva like waves.

'I hurt him, didn't I? I made the boy sad.'

She sighs, her chest heavy, weighed down by words she can't take back.

She should have watched her wretched tongue. Trudging to the door, she turns the lock with a firm click.

In the living room, the medicine sits abandoned on the table, a reminder of his fever. She gathers it, putting it back into the first aid kit, then slips out onto the balcony.

The night air greets her with a sting.

The cold gusts bite at her skin, pricking her nose and cheeks until they flush red. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, but the shivers still sneak through.

On the coffee table waits her cup, thin wisps of steam long gone. She lifts it, sighing when the liquid inside is cold. Still, she gulps it down in three swallows—the bittersweet liquid and chill sitting heavy in her chest.

Her elbows lean against the railing as her gaze drifts to the darkened treeline below, the twinkling town lights beyond.

Her eyes are dull, haunted by the memory of his wounded expression.

---

The following week drags by.

Rhett didn't appear again.

At dusk, with the sky painted in bruised purples and blues, Neva returns from the convenience store, a small grocery bag rustling at her side. She climbs the stairs, her footsteps echoing softly up the concrete.

At her floor, she halts. Her heart leaps into her throat.

Rhett.

He stands at his door, head bowed, fingers fumbling at the glowing keypad of the digital lock. His shoulders are hunched, his presence dimmer than she remembers.

"Rhett?"

The name cuts through the stillness. His fingers stop midair, frozen. His mind clears, but his body remains rooted.

He doesn't turn to look at her.

Neva quickens her pace, the white plastic bag swinging. A frown gathers as she sees his averted eyes.

"Is everything alright?" Her voice softens, but she's met with silence.

Her pulse spikes. She reaches out, fingers curling around his sleeve, gently turning him toward her. His head stays lowered.

He's sulking. Like a boy scolded, refusing to meet her gaze.

But then—her stomach twists.

His face is pale, drained of color.

Just as she opens her mouth to rain questions on him, her words collapse. Her eyes fall lower—her breath catches.

His hand presses against his abdomen.

Red stains bloom across his hoodie, dark and wet.

"Rhett—! You're bleeding!" Her voice cracks, wide-eyed in terror.

She doesn't wait for an answer as she drags him into her apartment, her heartbeat thundering louder than his footsteps.

.

.

.

She steers him to the couch and pushes him down, hands trembling but decisive.

"Undress yourself," she orders, kneeling before him.

His lashes lift, confusion flickering. "What?" His voice is small, uncertain.

"Your hoodie. Take it off," she repeats firmly.

But he doesn't move. His eyes slide away, aloof, a ghost of his usual bravado.

"I'm fine. You don't need to bother."

The words sting.

Did he really take it to heart? His face from that night flashes in her mind—hurt, fragile, boyish. Guilt twists her heart.

"Raise your arms." She softens her voice, guiding his wrists upward with careful hands.

He stiffens, but then yields. She peels the hoodie over his head. Beneath—nothing but bare skin. Her breath falters. His torso, sculpted and strong, catches the light.

Her cheeks burn. She presses her lips together, shoving down the thought. Then—her pupils tremble.

The wound glares at her.

A deep stab, jagged at the edges, still seeping. The hoodie had hidden the worst, but this… this was serious. The amount of blood lost—it's too much.

She sprints to her room, snatches the emergency kit, washes her hands hurriedly and returns to his side.

Kneeling, she turns him gently, her fingers steady now despite her racing heart.

She presses gauze to the wound. Warm blood soaks through instantly, sticky against her palms.

Her guts grow queasy at the strong mettalic scent of blood, but she holds firm, cleaning and disinfecting with delicate precision—before wrapping a bandage tight around his waist.

He doesn't flinch. His silence heavier than his body.

"For now, the bleeding's slowed," she says, exhaling, snapping the kit shut.

"But you need a hospital. You'll need stitches."

She looks at him. He avoids her gaze. "Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head, lashes low.

Her brow furrows. It has to hurt.

"What's wrong?" she asks softly.

He looks like a boy needing comfort after a scolding. His lips part.

"I'm sorry… I troubled you again," he murmurs, voice quiet, fragile.

Her face scrunches, her chest aching.

She sighs. "It's no biggy." A pause. Her throat tightens. "About last time… I didn't mean it. You're no trouble."

Slowly, he lifts his gaze. Their eyes thread. "Really?"

She swallows. "I only meant the fever part. But you're clearly annoying—following me around."

Hah—! Did that hit a nerve again?

Her heart lurches. Was she too harsh again?

But instead of wilting, his face brightens. She purses her lips, stiffening back a laugh.

She thinks he's really just a child at heart.

"Won't you ask how I got hurt?" Rhett asks, energy flickering back, pulling the hoodie over his shoulders again.

Neva raises a brow. "You must be in a street gang. Aren't you?"

"What?" His brows shoot up.

"Otherwise, how else? You probably got into a fight. And lost." She shrugs.

Rhett chuckles. He truly finds her adorable.

The sound warms the room. She frowns, more baffled by the second.

"What? That's not it?" To her, he still looks like a boy without a plan in life.

"You're a genius, Angel," he adds, giving her a playful thumbs-up.

"But no—I'm not in a gang. And I didn't lose. I won."

"I don't want to know," Neva sighs.

She doesn't ask anymore.

Part of her isn't ready to know the kind of man who comes home bleeding—and still have in him to smile like that.

But inside—her chest loosens. He's smiling again. Her mysterious man is back.

"Still. Stop being a stalker. Let's just be… friendly neighbors," she suggests.

His grin fades, a frown tugging instead. "But I want to be lovers."

Neva rolls her eyes. "You don't just say things like that!"

"But why?" Rhett almost whines.

She bites her lip, thinking. "Give me a reason to date you."

"Because I like you," he replies without hesitation.

That's it? Where's your IQ? Where's your EQ??

Neva huffs. "Forget it. Go rest."

At least assure her about your good heart—your strength that comes with that great body.

Far forget about bragging to keep her happy and prosperous loyalty… She sighs witheringly and stands up to leave.

He doesn't stand a chance.

But then—warmth encircles her wrist. His grip is gentle, but it roots her in place.

She turns. He's smiling, earnest, eyes burning softly.

"Alright. For now—we can be friends. But later, we'll date."

She shakes her head, smiling.

Clueless, everafter.

And still—her heart beats faster.

She slips free, her cheeks warming crimson.

"Win me over," she murmurs, then rushes away, leaving him grinning like a fool on her couch.

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