At dusk, the sky deepens into bruised purples and ocean blues, while the first stars glitter like scattered gems, piercing the velvet horizon.
Muffled footsteps scrape against the cobblestones, cutting through the quiet street, as golden lanterns bathe her silhouette in a soft, amber glow.
She has just returned from a quick trip to the nearby convenience store, a polythene bag heavy with groceries tugging painfully at her wrist.
She pushes open the side gate and trudges toward her apartment.
Her body aches with weariness from the day's relentless labor, and all she longs for is the soft cocoon of her bed, even if it means defying her growling stomach.
Her steps falter as the familiar silhouette of a man emerges before the door, just a few paces from the entrance to her own space.
A startle to her own heart, the name slips from her lips just as the door greets him with a hum, opening into the darkness beyond.
"Rhett!"
His body freezes mid-step.
Neva's heart races, blood pounding faster than her quickened steps up the stairs—relief, anxiety, and anticipation igniting her cold skin all at once.
She freezes just behind him, his face turned away, shadowed and unreadable, his slouched shoulders carrying heavy with the hurt and detachment she presumes.
Neva presses her lips together, struck by the sudden realization that words refuse to align with her feelings.
The rush of adrenaline from finally seeing him after a merciless week has drawn her here, where the mysterious man—casually cruel, deliberately avoiding her gaze—collides with the whirlwind of her overwhelmed thoughts, drowning the space between them in taut, stifling silence.
"What is it?" Rhett asks, glancing over his shoulder, his voice as soft as a flickering leaf, barely clinging to life by a withered petiole.
"I… I wanted to apologize—for my behavior that evening," Neva murmurs, her throat raw and bitter as she swallows.
He nods slowly. "Anything else?"
She shakes her head, knuckles whitening as her fingers dig into the biting plastic of the polythene bag.
"Then… if you'll excuse me," he murmurs, hand sliding toward the door handle while the other rests over his stomach.
The burden of her uncertainty toward him should have lifted with her apology, yet she remains far from light—sinking deeper into a cold, mysterious hollowness.
She lifts her gaze to meet his, almost shrinking under the weight of his reserved stare—a surface she has peeled, revealing a version of him too painfully unfamiliar.
He stays still, as though measuring whether another word will fall from her lips.
No reason stirs her tongue,
and so she turns on her heels, quietly leaving the moment behind her.
But midway to the apartment nextdoor, her steps falter.
She turns, and there he is—motionless, eyes fixed on her like a quiet accusation.
Something like a soothed exhale flickers in his eyes the moment she drops the grocery bag and rushes toward him.
The metallic bite hits her—sharp, unmistakable—even through her haze.
Her breath stutters, a near-curse barely swallowed as her fingertips meet his slick, crimson-coated ones clamped over his bleeding abdomen.
"You're hurt,'' she whispers, her voice barely forming, eyes lifting to meet his—unreadable, unflinching.
She grips his wrist at once, drawing him toward her apartment, snatching up the abandoned grocery bags without a second thought. The door closes, shutting the autumn chill, and she directs him to the couch—the warmth of her living room cocooning them in a fragile calm.
As quickly as she disappears into her bedroom, she's back again, a first-aid box in hand, setting it down on the table with a soft thud.
"Can I see the wound?" she asks softly, already cracking open the first-aid box, her fingers moving with quiet urgency as she pulls out a roll of thick gauze.
He doesn't budge, his gaze steady as it threads with hers.
She hesitates, confusion threading through her—maybe he's reluctant after what happened the last time she tried to help him.
But before she can repeat herself, he grips the fabric in one hand and lifts it, baring the wound.
She kneels before him, wincing as she leans closer to inspect the wound—close enough to see the raw, angry edges of what almost looks like a knife-gash. It isn't too deep or too wide, yet blood still trails down his skin, over the firm, sun-tanned hardness of him.
"It likely won't need stitches," she whispers, gently pressing the gauze with both hands. "Hold it for me, please."
He obeys, his fingers brushing hers before replacing her touch with his own, steadying the gauze where she once held it.
She slips into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of clean water.
Wetting a fresh piece of gauze, she settles beside him.
When he turns to face her, she gently pries his fingers away from the blood-soaked pad he's been holding to his skin, the gauze now a deep, saturated crimson.
Her stomach turns queasy as the metallic scent bites into her senses, but she forces herself steady, her faintly trembling fingers dabbing the wet gauze in gentle, careful strokes to clean the wound.
She reaches for the antibiotic ointment, rolling the cap open with a soft click. "This might sting a little," she murmurs, lifting her gaze to meet his. He only nods, not a flicker of pain crossing his face.
With light, careful strokes of her fingertips, she spreads the ointment over the cleaned gash. When she's done, she presses a fresh pad over the wound and winds a bandage around his torso, snug but gentle. Only when the ends are secured does she exhale, a quiet, shaky relief slipping past her lips as she snaps the first-aid box shut.
As he pulls his hoodie back down, she finds herself in a muddle. Waves of unwelcome thoughts crash over her, as sudden as the frightening ones that hit the beat she rushed to him in her panic.
Panic? But why would she worry so fiercely about someone she barely knows?
She would have reacted the same if it had been anyone else. Anyone.
But the hollow thrum in her chest betrays her, insisting otherwise.
"Thank you," Rhett murmurs, his voice quiet, unguarded—almost fragile.
"It's alright," Neva whispers, turning to face him.
A hush settles between them again, teetering somewhere between warmth and an unsure awkwardness.
She lowers her eyes, because he makes no move—
neither to break the tether of his stare nor the silence stringing tightly between them.
For a heartbeat, she almost wishes the goofy, teasing version of him would manifest again, if only to save her from drowning in these unbidden, rising feelings.
And she wonders—quietly, helplessly—which version of him is real.
This silent, gentle, yet intimidating presence before her?
Or the one from earlier, the one who drives her heart into a reckless rhythm—through foolish shyness, fleeting annoyance, or that strange, inexplicable giddiness?
"Do you want some painkillers?" Neva asks at last, breaking the silence.
"I'm fine," Rhett whispers.
She only nods, gathering the first-aid box before turning toward her bedroom.
"Wait," he interrupts, halting her mid-step.
Her gaze drops to his fingers circling her wrist before lifting to meet his, a small frown pulling at her brow.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple shifting, and in that still little while, the quiet longing in his gaze becomes impossible to miss.
"I thought you hated me," he whispers, the faint tremor in his voice betraying the fear and hope warring beneath it.
A soft chuckle slips from her, and she can't help relishing the way a small frown forms between his brows—so innocently confused it tugs at something warm inside her.
"I never did," she says, a smile unfurling at her lips, delicate and sincere.
A heavy sigh spills from him, and a quiet solace follows, smoothing the taut lines of his body into something gentler.
She watches him, secretly amused, the first-aid box balanced against her stomach as her smile lingers unguarded. Then he looks up—eyes warm, soft with a glow she's seen before—and a smile slowly tugs at his lips.
"I'm sorry," Neva says softly. "I shouldn't have spoken so crudely."
Regret gnaws at her heart—she honestly can't remember the last time she'd been so rude or rash with anyone.
Rhett never crossed a line with her; he was only a little foolish in the way he tried to interact. And she…
she is still learning how to be accustomed to people who aren't her aunt and uncle.
"You should be," Rhett says, startling her with the bluntness of it.
"I could neither sleep nor eat well after you hurt me so deeply."
Neva presses her lips together, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Now he's bluffing—obviously. It can't be that bad.
"Anyway… how did you get hurt?" she asks, trying to shift her focus away from that evening—
away from the memory of him leaving in silence, without the jar of sugar he'd come for, or the cold tablets she'd offered him.
"Just a fight," he replies with an easy shrug, brushing off the severity the way only he can.
She sighs, asking nothing more. Now that everything has calmed—now that the tension between them has finally eased—the exhaustion of the day winds itself around her joints. She could wash up,
slip under the covers, and fall asleep in an instant, hunger long forgotten.
But he doesn't budge from his seat.
And it would feel indecent—careless—to urge him out of her home, not after he's just sat here bleeding, not after he's been so unexpectedly vulnerable with her.
"Would you like something to drink?" Neva asks instead.
Rhett only shakes his head.
"Angel?"
A faint hum escapes her at the pet name—an involuntary, yet breezy sound.
"Do I still stand a chance with you?" he asks.
Heat rushes to her cheeks so fast it almost startles her.
"I'm not sure I follow," she murmurs, already stepping toward her bedroom if only to hide the tremor he causes.
"I want to know you," he says quietly.
"To spend my hours with you."
His voice rises like a fragile breeze—urgent, hopeful, pierced with something that borders on desperation.
Neva stops at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe.
She glances back at him—and the sight stills her completely.
Rhett sits rigid, every line of his body drawn tight, his fingers curled into the sofa cushion as though bracing against a storm only he can feel. A war is moving through him, and for the first time, she truly sees him.
"I'm head over heels for you," he breathes, his voice a fragile feather skimming the surface of the storm-tide roaring in his chest.
"Win me over," she murmurs, slipping inside her room with a soft sweep of floral air, leaving her mystery man grinning after her like a lovestruck fool.