I turned back around with the kind of dramatic sigh that belonged in a sad indie film. My arms flailed just a little as I marched back to the man, this blood-soaked, possibly criminal, human paperweight of a man, who still looked like he was two blinks away from collapsing permanently.
But now he was trying to get up. Failing. Badly.
He shoved one arm against the pavement, tried to push, and then swayed like a noodle on a windy day.
"No, no—don't do that. Stop," I hissed, rushing forward.
I knelt beside him again, setting my precious bag of crushed food down like it mattered, and hovered my hands awkwardly around his body. "Where are you hurt? Is it your side? Your leg? Oh God, if something's inside you I'm gonna throw up—"
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't. He just gritted his teeth and tried again like I wasn't right there.
"Hey! Listen to me!" I grabbed his shoulder, not gently. "If you don't want to go to the hospital or call the cops or whatever, fine. But you're literally dying. Can you at least try to accept help from the one idiot in this city who hasn't run away from you yet?"
He blinked slowly at me, like it took energy just to do that, and then he said it.
"Are you… stupid?"
I paused.
Blink. Blink.
"Excuse me?"
He coughed, a dry, broken sound. "You're helping someone who just put a gun to your head. You should be screaming. Running. Not… this."
I opened my mouth to argue, like I felt the sass building up but the words caught halfway up my throat.
Because he was right.
He was so right.
What kind of person does this? Who helps the scary, bloody man with a gun who threatened to kill her less than ten minutes ago?
I stared at him. Stared at my shaking hands. Stared at the blood on my shirt. My stupid grocery bag. The bruises starting to form on my wrists.
"Oh God," I breathed, staggering back up to my feet.
"I—I'm done. I'm leaving. You're right. I should've run. I should run. I'm a freaking idiot."
I turned around, actually ready to walk this time. I was gonna go. I didn't care if he bled out behind me. That was his problem. I wasn't a nurse. I wasn't a friend. I was a broke girl with sad noodles and a trauma bond waiting to happen.
But then, I felt it.
His hand. Big, shaking, bloodied. Grabbing my wrist.
"No… wait. I'm sorry." He rasped. "I need… help."
I froze.
My mouth fell open but no sound came out. Just a squeaky exhale and a very loud internal scream.
God help me, I was actually going to help him.
Getting to my apartment felt like dragging a corpse through a swamp in a thunderstorm. A very heavy, occasionally conscious, bleeding corpse. Who muttered threats under his breath every time I tried to rest.
He collapsed on me twice. Not once. Twice.
At one point, I was under him again, gasping against the staircase like a squished animal, wondering if this was how I died: not by murder, but by weight.
By the time we made it to the top floor, I was half-limping, fully sweating, and probably one dropped noodle away from a breakdown.
My hands fumbled in my bag, trying to find my keys. Shaking. Everything in there felt like a key. Or a pen. Or a ghost. I couldn't even tell anymore.
That's when I heard it.
"Kina?"
I snapped my head up and froze like a kid caught doing something illegal.
It was Mrs. Kim. My landlady. Seventy-something years old, eyes like a hawk, mouth like a detective, and the reason I hadn't been kicked out of this sad little box I called home yet. I quickly dragged my coat over my shirt to cover the crime scene across my chest.
"I—I heard Louis barking downstairs. Is everything alright?" she asked, already squinting past me.
Then she saw him.
The man half-conscious behind me.
Half-limp. Bloodied. Barely standing. Still holding a gun. I secretly prayed her vision betrayed her and she didn't catch the blood part.
Her eyes widened.
"Who is that?"
My brain exploded like a firework. "Uh—uhm—" I flung my arm back, yanking his gun hand down behind me like I was trying to wrestle a bear. He gave a weak grunt.
"He's—uh, a co-worker!" I blurted. "Yeah. Yeah, a co-worker. Got way too drunk. Office party! You know how it is! End of quarter! Woo!"
I made jazz hands.
She blinked.
I somehow found my keys, thank you, anxious fingers, jammed them in the lock, and shoved us both inside like I was stuffing sins into a closet.
The door slammed. I locked it. Bolted it. Chain-latched it.
Then I screamed into my mouth. Not loud. Just enough to let my soul echo out.
I dragged him toward my room, which felt like dragging a cement bag soaked in tomato sauce. He groaned but didn't fight me.
I laid him on the floor by my bed, staring down at him, hands on my hips like I was trying to summon courage. My knees felt like soup. My brain was actual dust.
Then I grabbed my phone and started googling:
"How to stop someone from dying without going to jail."
Got some weird answers.
Eventually settled on: Go to pharmacy. Get first aid supplies. Try not to cry in public.
I changed into sweatpants and my old hoodie, half-speed-walked, half-ran down the block, got everything I could possibly need, and returned home with a plastic bag full of Hope and Regret.
Then I stared at him.
And I cleaned him.
Every motion was awkward. Every touch was terrified. I was 99% sure he'd wake up and choke me mid-wipe.
But he didn't.
He lay there, unconscious or just too weak to move, blood crusted over his face, his side, his arm, Goodness, his side. I cleaned what I could, trembling, using antiseptic wipes and trying not to gag.
When I finally saw his face... like really saw it, I froze.
He was… gorgeous.
Like dark-haired, sharp-jawed, high-cheekboned, dangerous-guy-in-a-movie gorgeous. His eyes were a dull silver color and his lashes were stupidly long. His lips had that slight part, like he always looked ready to say something he shouldn't.
Half his body was decorated in tattoos that ran from his abdomen to the side of his neck. A snake. Even with the blood, even with the scrapes, he looked like if the forbidden fruit and pain had a baby and dropped him in my room.
I blinked hard.
"No. No, Kina," I whispered to myself. "This is not the time. You have a boyfriend. His name is Aaron. He runs the place you work at and likes almond milk. Focus."
I took a deep breath and forced my voice into the air, mostly to stay sane.
"I stopped the bleeding. I think. I cleaned the area. You're not bleeding like a horror movie anymore, so that's something. But you still need actual medical help, and…"
I trailed off.
He didn't respond.
His head lolled slightly to the side. His eyes barely open. Like he was hanging on to consciousness by a thread.
"Hey," I said quietly. "Hey, don't fall asleep yet, okay? I didn't do all this for you to go into a coma."
Nothing. Just a soft breath and the rise and fall of his chest.
My heart skipped. I sat back on my heels, staring at him.
What. The hell. Had I just done?