I kept thinking maybe none of this was going well. Ever since that night at the gala—since he'd stood too close, close enough that I could hear my lungs working overtime, like they were about to burst out of my chest—I hadn't been able to steady myself.
What was so different about him from the other men I'd known?
He wasn't even all that, not on the surface. But I had this quiet, unsettling feeling that there was more written between his lines than what he chose to show the world.
I remember thinking I needed air. Real air. Something to loosen the tight knot inside my ribs.
So I took my jacket, stepped out of my apartment, and went downstairs, passing through the large iron gate that guarded the complex. There were nearly twenty apartments there, most of them empty more often than not. It was usually peaceful—too peaceful to feel dangerous.
The city was alive that night. Lights flickered and spilled across the streets, turning darkness into something almost bright. The cold brushed against my cheeks, sharp and biting, sending chills down my spine. I started wondering when exactly my life had tilted off its axis—how I'd ended up here, thinking these thoughts, feeling pulled in directions I knew better than to follow.
I was so lost in my head that I forgot to watch the world around me.
It came out of nowhere.
The impact was brutal.
My body hit the ground hard, the sound of it echoing too loud in my ears. My head struck something unforgiving, and this time the pain exploded—white, blinding. I tasted iron almost immediately. Warm blood streamed down my temple and into my eyes, blurring everything into red and light.
Car horns screamed. Tires screeched. Voices overlapped.
"What—" I tried to say, but the word fell apart before it reached my lips.
The world tilted, spun, then fractured.
"Hey—hey, don't move."
A voice cut through the chaos, urgent and close. Hands slid beneath my shoulders, firm but careful.
"Can you hear me?"
I tried to focus, but my vision tunneled. "I… yeah," I whispered, though I wasn't sure it was true.
"Stay with me," he said. "Please."
That voice.
Even through the pain, recognition struck.
I forced my eyes open just enough to see him kneeling over me, his face tight with something I'd never seen on him before—fear.
Alexander Qinn.
Blood soaked into his coat where he pressed it against my head. He was saying my name—my name—like it mattered, like losing me would cost him something.
"I'm calling an ambulance," he said, already pulling out his phone. "Just stay awake."
"I didn't… look," I murmured, weakly.
"I know," he said, softer now. "I've got you."
The rest blurred together—sirens, lights, the sensation of being lifted, his hand never leaving mine until someone else forced it away.
When I woke up, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
White walls. The steady beep of a monitor. The smell of antiseptic. My head throbbed dully, wrapped tight in bandages, and my body felt heavy—like gravity had doubled while I slept.
I turned my head slowly.
That's when I saw him.
Alexander was slumped in a chair beside the bed, long legs stretched awkwardly, head tilted to one side. He was asleep, arms folded, jaw slack in a way that stripped away every sharp edge he carried when he was awake. The cold, untouchable man from the gala was gone.
He looked… human.
I watched him longer than I should have. Noticed the faint crease between his brows, the way exhaustion softened him. I wondered how long he'd been there. If he'd left at all.
As if he felt my gaze, his eyes opened.
Deep grey met mine instantly.
For a second, he just stared—then the corner of his mouth curved upward.
"Are you enjoying what you're looking at?" he asked, voice low, still rough with sleep.
Heat crept into my face despite myself. "You snore," I said weakly.
He let out a quiet laugh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You scared the hell out of me."
"I've been told I have that effect."
"Don't joke," he said, more serious now. "You had a concussion. You lost a lot of blood."
I swallowed. "But I'm alive."
"Barely," he replied. Then, softer, "I didn't leave. In case you didn't wake up."
Something tightened in my chest at that.
"You didn't have to stay," I said.
"I wanted to."
Silence settled between us—not awkward, just heavy with things neither of us said.
He stood and reached for a cup of water, helping me drink like it was the most natural thing in the world. When he was that close again, I felt it—that same pull, the same dangerous curiosity.
"You're trouble," I murmured.
His eyes darkened slightly. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
And lying there, bruised and stitched together, I realized something that unsettled me more than the accident itself—
Running into him hadn't been the dangerous part.
Wanting him was.
He went quiet after that, the teasing fading from his face like it had never been there. He straightened slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and for the first time since I'd woken up, he looked… unsettled.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
I shifted slightly on the bed, the movement tugging at my ribs. "For the snoring?"
That earned a faint smile, but it didn't last. He shook his head and exhaled, long and heavy, like he'd been holding it in for hours.
"For the accident," he said. "For all of it."
I frowned. "Alexander—"
"No," he cut in gently, not harsh, just firm. "Let me say this."
He moved closer, stopping beside the bed, his hands braced on the rail like he needed something solid to hold on to.
"I was driving recklessly," he admitted. "My head wasn't where it should've been. There was… something going on. Something bad. And instead of stopping, instead of slowing down, I pushed harder."
His eyes dropped to the floor, then came back to me, darker now. Honest.
"And you paid for it."
The words hit heavier than I expected.
"I didn't see you until it was too late," he continued, voice lower. "The moment I did, I swear—everything just stopped. I thought I'd killed you."
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
"It's been eating at me," he said quietly. "Seeing you like that on the road. Blood everywhere. Not moving." His jaw clenched. "I don't hurt people like that. Not unintentionally."
There was something raw in the way he said it, like it mattered more than reputation or consequence.
"I'm really sorry," he finished. "More than I know how to say."
I studied him for a long second. This wasn't the cold, untouchable man people whispered about. This was someone carrying weight—too much of it—and hating himself for letting it spill over onto someone else.
"It wasn't entirely your fault," I said finally. "I wasn't paying attention either."
"That doesn't change what I did."
I sighed softly. "I'm still here."
His gaze flickered to my bandaged head, my IV, the bruises just beginning to bloom beneath my skin. "You shouldn't have to say that."
Silence settled again, thicker this time. He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand rest lightly on the edge of the bed, close to mine but not touching.
"I don't usually let things get out of control," he said, almost to himself. "Last night… I did. And it hurts knowing you were the one caught in it."
Something in my chest shifted. Against my better judgment, I believed him.
"Well," I said softly, trying to lighten the weight between us, "if it helps, you stayed. That counts for something."
He looked at me then, really looked, like he was memorizing the fact that I was breathing, awake, talking to him.
"It counts for everything," he said.
And for reasons I didn't want to name yet, hearing that made my heart ache in a way that had nothing to do with my injuries—and everything to do with the man standing beside my hospital bed.
But then l felt it....