The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and city life winding down. On her way back from picnic Elara walked through the dimly lit alley, her boots clicking softly against the uneven pavement. She wasn't supposed to be here. Her usual route home was well lit and bustling but a shortcut had seemed harmless.
Until now.
A figure lay crumpled against the cold brick wall, barely visible under the flickering street lamp. Blood. Too much of it. Her breath caught in her throat. For a second, she considered walking away. Calling for help. Letting someone else handle it.
But then he moved. Just a twitch of his fingers, a shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath.
Against every rational thought screaming at her to mind her own business, she crouched beside him. His clothes were torn, soaked in blood and grime. His face though partially hidden by the messy fall of his dark hair was striking, even under the layers of pain.
"Hey." She shook his shoulder, carefully but firmly. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
Elara clenched her jaw. She should call an ambulance. But something told her this man didn't belong in a hospital. Not yet.
Cursing her bleeding heart, she looped his arm around her shoulder, staggering slightly as she lifted his weight. "Damn, you're heavier than you look," she gritted out, half dragging, half carrying him towards her shop.
The journey was agonizingly slow. By the time she made it to the back entrance of her coffee shop, she was sweating, her muscles aching from the effort. She fumbled with the keys, kicked the door open, and all but collapsed inside with him.
With one final effort, she hoisted him onto the worn out couch in her small upstairs living space. He groaned a deep, guttural sound of pain but didn't wake.
Elara exhaled sharply. "You better not die on me."
She grabbed her first aid kit, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater. Years of running a shop had given her a steady hand, minor burns, small cuts, accidental bruises from heavy lifting, she had dealt with them all. But this was different.
She peeled away his blood soaked jacket and shirt, biting her lip as she took in the gash across his ribs. "What the hell happened to you?"
Dipping a cloth into warm water, she cleaned away the dried blood, wincing when he flinched unconsciously. His skin burned under her touch, feverish. Infection? She'd have to watch out for that.
With practiced precision, she disinfected the wound, her fingers working fast as she wrapped fresh bandages around his torso. The process took longer than she liked, but by the end, he was no longer actively bleeding, and his breathing had steadied.
She leaned back, running a hand through her hair. Hoping he will be fine.
Yet, as she watched him sleep his brow still slightly furrowed, his lips parted as if in pain she knew she wasn't throwing him out anytime soon.
Elara pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, and her stomach sank. His skin was burning. Not just warm scorching. The kind of fever that made people delirious, their minds slipping between reality and dreams.
"Of course," she muttered, standing up abruptly. "Because carrying your half-dead body wasn't enough."
She hurried to the tiny kitchen corner of her living space, filling a bowl with cold water and grabbing a clean cloth. When she returned, she found him shifting restlessly on the couch, his face contorted in pain. His lips moved, whispering something too faint for her to catch.
Elara sighed, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out before gently pressing it to his forehead. He flinched but didn't wake. She worked in silence, dabbing at his feverish skin, wiping away the sheen of sweat forming along his brow and neck.
"Who are you?" she murmured.
He gave no answer, of course. Just a slow inhale, a shaky exhale.
Hours passed in a blur of tending to him changing the compress, making sure he didn't slip into a worse state, muttering complaints under her breath even as she carefully wiped his burning skin. At some point, his hand weakly grabbed at her wrist, his fingers barely curling around her.
Elara stilled. His grip was weak, but desperate, like he was trying to hold onto something. Or someone.
His eyes fluttered open for just a moment. A deep, stormy shade unfocused, hazy with fever. He stared at her as if she were a dream.
"...You're... still here..." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
Elara blinked. "Obviously. Not like I was gonna let you roast alive."
A ghost of a smile, barely there. Then, just as quickly as he had come to, his eyes slid shut again, and he sank back into unconsciousness.
Elara exhaled slowly.
"Yeah, yeah. You're welcome, mysterious dying man."
Elara watched as his breathing evened out again, though his body still radiated unnatural heat. She gently wrung out the cloth and placed it back on his forehead, her movements slow and careful.
She had no idea who he was, what had happened to him, or why she had found him in such a state. But none of that mattered right now. He needed help, and that was enough for her.
She spent the night by his side, cooling his fever, whispering soft reassurances even though she wasn't sure he could hear her. His face would occasionally twitch, as if caught in a nightmare, but every time she placed a fresh compress on him, he settled again.
Sometime near dawn, the fever finally broke. The tension in his body eased, and his breathing became more steady. Relief flooded Elara's chest as she leaned back against the couch, exhaustion weighing on her.
She hadn't slept. How could she, knowing that a stranger's life rested in her hands?
As sunlight began filtering through the curtains, she finally allowed herself to relax, resting her head against the armrest of the couch. Just for a moment.
The next time she opened her eyes, it was to the feeling of someone watching her.
She blinked, sitting up slightly only to meet a pair of deep, piercing eyes staring back at her.
He was awake.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Elara remained still, watching him carefully. His eyes, sharp despite the exhaustion lingering in them, darted around the room before settling back on her. There was confusion in them, wariness, even.
His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His throat must have been parched after the fever.
Without hesitation, Elara reached for the glass of water she had placed nearby and held it out to him. "Here," she said gently. "You should drink."
He hesitated, eyeing her before shifting slightly. The movement alone made him wince, his body clearly still in pain. Ignoring his pride, he took the glass from her with slow, trembling fingers and drank deeply.
When he finally lowered the glass, he exhaled shakily and let his head rest against the couch again. "Where... am I?" His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"My home," Elara answered simply. "It's above my shop. I found you in the alley last night. You were badly hurt and burning up with fever."
His gaze flickered with something unreadable. "You took me in?"
She nodded.
"...Why?"
Elara tilted her head slightly. "Because you needed help."
He stared at her like that answer didn't make sense to him. Like he wasn't used to kindness being given so freely.
His fingers twitched slightly, as if testing his strength. "I should go," he muttered, attempting to push himself up.
Elara's hand shot out instinctively, pressing against his shoulder to stop him. "No, you shouldn't," she said firmly. "You're still weak. You need to rest."
For a second, his entire body tensed under her touch. His muscles coiled like he was about to fight back but then he let out a slow breath and sank back down, wincing.
Elara pulled her hand away. "You don't have to trust me, but at least trust that your body isn't ready to move yet."
He was silent for a long moment, then "What's your name?"
"Elara."
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable and cautious. His body was still weak, but his mind Elara could see it working, analyzing, deciding something.
"What's your name?" she asked softly.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Then, he looked away, exhaling. "Riven."
Elara tilted her head slightly, sensing the hesitation in his voice. A fake name? Maybe. But she didn't press.
"Well then, Riven," she said, offering a small smile, "you're safe here. You should rest."
He didn't respond right away, just watching her, fair skin, height almost 5'3, short hairs, she look like a doll. Then, slowly, his eyes slid shut again, exhaustion pulling him under.
Elara remained seated, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Whoever he really was, whatever had happened to him she had a feeling she'd find out soon enough.
_________________________________
Thank you✨✨