I sat in quiet disbelief, my body stiff under the blanket, my breath caught somewhere between fear and confusion.
There he was—the man I thought I'd never see again. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a bodyguard from some high-budget movie
But he was carved too perfectly to be real.
He leaned against the far wall of my hospital room.
His arms folded neatly across his chest,
eyes trailing from the cast on my leg to the sling on my arm, then pausing briefly on my face…
Only to flick away again as he checked his phone.
The screen glowed against his sharp features, and each time it lit up, his expression didn't change.
He barely blinked.
I glanced at him. Then away. Then back. The nurse was still here, fiddling with the bandages on my elbow, pressing gently where the swelling had gone down.
It was my first bath since the accident—one full day of being trapped in this stiff, sterile bed—
and I'd barely gotten used to the feeling of clean skin again.
When I looked up and stood the same unexpected figure, same figure of the man I'd encountered at the store.
One with the beautiful eyes and blood-stained fingers. Same one who bought cigars and asked for a handkerchief like it was nothing.
Now here he was, standing in my hospital room like some haunting echo at the surrounding day.
Likely he'd been following some invisible string that tied us together.
Was this fate? Coincidence?
Or just cruel timing…
I swallowed, hard. What did he want? My thoughts spiral unwarranted.
Was he here to apologize or to finish the job? Or was I going to find out he was some hitman sent by the ghosts of my dead parents?
Maybe they finally decided I was a waste of space and hired the most attractive assassin they could find.
If so… they had taste. But wow, harsh.
The nurse finished up, gave me a kind smile,
and turned to him. "Make sure he doesn't move too much," she said to the man, her tone unusually warm.
"Help him if he needs anything, alright?"
He didn't speak. Just nodded. She gave me a last look. "Good luck," she whispered, almost with sympathy, and left.
I really wish she hadn't.
Now it was just us. Me and him. Silence and him.
He kicked off from the wall, his long strides bringing him across the room in just a few seconds, and he dropped into the chair beside me like he'd always belonged there.
Without a word, he reached over to the small fruit pile on the table beside my bed, plucked a tangerine—
And began peeling it with strong, slow fingers.
The scent of citrus filled the space between us.
Still, he said nothing.
I watched, afraid to look directly, but unable to stop peeking.
Then—without a glance—he held the peeled tangerine toward me.
I took it carefully with my good hand.
"…Thanks," I muttered.
He finally looked at me. Properly. Those cool, icy eyes like winter skies that never soften.
"You planning to sue me?"
I choked. On citrus.
I coughed hard, panicked for a second as my throat burned, and waved my good hand awkwardly, trying to signal that I wasn't dying—just… dying a little.
He didn't move. Just watched me calmly, like this happened often. Like he expected that reaction.
When I finally recovered, I wheezed out, "No, no… That's not why I called you."
His brow ticked up just slightly. A shift—barely showed.
I adjusted myself in the bed, the bandages tugging against my movement, and looked down at the tangerine.
"I mean… yeah, technically you hit me. But I also kinda ran into the road without looking. So… you know. Let's call it a tie."
He tilted his head slightly, still unreadable.
"Then why call me?"
I bit my lip. Looked away. Then back at him. His presence was a weight, but not an unkind one.
"I need a favor." I hesitated.
"It's… kind of a big one."
He said nothing.
"I have a cat. Her name is Snow. She's… waiting for me at home. There's no one else. No friends, no family. I'm an orphan, and I don't have neighbors I trust. I've been worried sick about her."
I met his gaze fully this time. "I want you to take care of her. Just until I recover. Please."
Then an inexplicable expression happened. His eyes widened—only a little, but for a man who hadn't changed expressions since he entered,
it felt like watching a stone crack.
"A cat?" he repeated, almost in disbelief.
I frowned. "Yeah. Is that… weird?"
He blinked. "No. Just unexpected."
I squinted. "You don't like cats?"
He paused. Then said, "I didn't say that."
I sighed, my body slumping slightly. "Well… thanks for paying my hospital bills. But if you really want to take responsibility, please make sure she's safe."
He leaned back in the chair, his fingers curling under his chin in thought. Then—after a moment—he nodded.
"No problem."
I stared. "That's it? Just like that?"
"You asked," he said simply.
A breath I didn't know I was holding slipped out of me. Relief washed over me like warm water.
I smiled, small and awkward.
"Thank you. Really."
He didn't answer..Instead, his gaze drifted to the tangerine still in my hand, half-eaten now.
Then he asked, "You hungry?"
My stomach answered before I could. I gave him a sheepish nod.
He stood. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
"I'll be back."
Just like that, he turned and left—his tall figure disappearing through the door like a shadow returning to its corner.
I watched him go, then looked down at the tangerine in my hand.
That man… he wasn't normal. Undoubtedly he wasn't. He holds danger in his aura just now.
And his walking wardrobe screams living in opulence.
But I wasn't scared. Not anymore. Maybe this wasn't the worst thing still after.
–
He returned like a shadow pressed into light, holding a tray that looked far too generous for someone like me.
The scent arrived before he did—warm broth, buttered bread, something spiced, something soft.
My stomach curled in on itself with hunger but I couldn't help the flicker of amusement that rose when I saw his face.
His scowl could have frightened a grown man off a battlefield, lips pressed so tight it looked like the tray had offended him personally.
He looked awkward, truly. Out of place. Like a king trying to play servant in a play he didn't audition for.
Hospitality didn't wear well on him—it clung like clothes a size too small, unfamiliar and unyielding.
Still, he approached with the same elegance he always carried, and dropped the tray—quite literally—on my lap, as though expecting I had ten arms instead of one.
"Ah—wait—!" I tried to protest, fumbling to steady the tray as the weight settled over my blanket-covered legs.
I shot him a glance, a blend of disbelief and grudging amusement, but he was already stepping back, arms folded again like he'd done nothing unusual.
No apology. Just quiet indifference.
I sighed and leaned awkwardly to prop myself up against the headboard, adjusting pillows with one hand and a determined grimace.
The tray wobbled, the juice nearly tipped, but I managed—barely—to get into a position that allowed me to eat without spilling the whole offering on the bed.
My fingers worked like strangers as I clumsily spooned soup into my mouth, left-handed and slow, dripping slightly onto the tray as I ate.
I wasn't elegant. Not even close.
The man—whose name I still didn't know—sat beside me, near the bedside table. Watching.
Not helping. Not deemed a mocking. He just quietly watched.
His eyes didn't flinch at the awkward mess I made, nor did he offer help or napkins or the smallest gesture of aid.
He was still as stone, an observer behind the veil of unreadable thought.
I nearly chuckled to myself. It was just so painfully ironic. Here I was, arm broken, trying to eat like a lopsided raccoon, while the man who hit me sat two feet away like a mafia statue.
Maybe he really was heartless. Or maybe he'd simply never seen a moment like this before—
Never sat next to a broken boy trying not to spill soup while clinging to dignity.
Either way, I stopped expecting warmth from him. Whatever he was, warmth wasn't stitched into the seams.
When I finished—after battling a stubborn bread roll and nearly dropping the spoon twice—I leaned back and exhaled, a soft sigh of defeat and gratitude.
"I'm done," I said, awkwardly.
He nodded. One click of the nurse call button. Smooth, efficient. And just like that, a nurse walked in moments later with practiced grace.
"Oh! All done?" she beamed.
I gave her a sheepish smile. "Sorry for the mess."
She waved me off with a gentle laugh. "I've seen worse. Much worse. You did just fine."
She cleaned up quickly, leaving behind the faint scent of sanitiser and reassurance.
Then she was gone, like a breeze that knew its time.
Silence returned.
He turned toward me, hands in his pockets now. "Your address?"
The question was simple. Sharp.
"Oh… right," I said, suddenly fumbling with the side drawer. I had told the nurse earlier to put my wallet and keys in the bottom one.
I directed him to it, and he pulled out my keys, my ID tucked in the folds of the wallet beside it.
He studied it briefly—my name, my face, the part of the city I lived in—and then tucked it neatly away in his coat pocket.
"She's inside. My cat. Snow," I said quietly. "Her food's on the lower shelf, near the sink. Her litter box is beside the fridge, weirdly. She's clingy. Talk to her."
He didn't respond with words. Just nodded once, that same slow, deliberate motion he did when he was accepting something he didn't want to say out loud.
Then he turned. Walked to the door with steady steps. And, like always, didn't say goodbye.
The door closed softly behind him, and I was left with the faint echo of his essence—like steel in winter air.
I leaned my head back, eyes flicking to the ceiling. I hoped he'd find Snow. I hoped she wouldn't scratch him too much.
—♥—
Snow nestled in my arms, her soft fur brushing against my chin as if she meant to scold me with every twitch of her tail.
Her blue eyes narrowed into tiny moons, luminous and disapproving, and the low rumble of her purring did not disguise the occasional dramatic meow she let out—
Loud, insistent, alike of an old friend giving a lecture I half-deserved.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I whispered into her fur, gently stroking behind her ear, the spot she loved.
But she didn't forgive so easily. She flicked her ear at my apology, refusing to let my sins go unremembered.
From the corner of the room, I could feel his eyes.
The tall man, again leaned against the wall like a watchtower.
Arms crossed—the typical posture. He remained still and composed, as if nothing in this room could reach him.
Yet something in his gaze hinted he was more present than he seemed.
I didn't look his way much. Not because I was afraid— but because I wasn't sure if I wanted to unravel what it meant when someone like him watched so quietly.
Then the nurse came in, brisk as always, her voice light and kind.
"Time for your bath, sweetheart," she said, already gathering towels and the wheeled basin of warm water.
I sighed, softly, and glanced at him again—
wondering if he'd take Snow now.
That's when I spotted—by the window, rested elegantly against a chair.
A new cat cage. White with soft pink edges, laced with tiny silver handles like jewelry, the inside cushioned with something velvet and pale.
Luxury.
I blinked. I hadn't perceived when it appeared.
Snow noticed it too.
One sniff and she leapt from my lap like I'd never mattered.
With the air of a queen discovering her throne,
she padded into the cage and made herself comfortable.
Then, as if to twist the knife, she purred louder than she had for me. Right there in his cradle of luxury.
I looked at him. He didn't seem bothered by her sudden affection.
He held her gently, one large hand resting on her back as she rubbed against him, his expression, unreadable but not cold.
He didn't hate cats. That alone made me… grateful.
He looked at me then and gave a small nod. "I'll take her now," he said, voice smooth, low as dusk.
But I found myself blurting, "Wait—"
He paused mid-turn, head tilting.
I felt foolish immediately, but I cleared my throat and stared at the blanket on my lap.
"What's your name?"
The silence stretched for half a second too long. Then he answered. And just like that, I had it.
His name.
I whispered it once, rolled it on my tongue like the first taste of something forbidden and sweet.
And when I spoke it aloud, "Caelan.." he stopped. Really stopped.
He looked at me—a slow glance, and something flickered in his eyes.
Not annoyance nor amusement. It carried something distorted.
Then he turned again, ready to go. I wasn't done.
"Wait, again—sorry," I said, cheeks hot with the odd desperation I felt.
"It's just… could you maybe… bring her here again? Sometimes?"
He didn't answer. Didn't blink. Just stood still.
Then, without turning around, he replied, "No."
The word felt sharper than it should've.
I quickly backtracked.
"Not every day, I mean. Just maybe… four times a week?"
He exhaled, slowly. "Three."
I smiled bright. "Three's perfect."
He nodded once. Then turned again—truly this time—and walked to the door.
Snow didn't even look back. She was too busy purring in her little palace. Traitor.
But I couldn't be mad. Not really. She was in safe hands now. Hands that, despite everything, had been there since the moment I broke.
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