- A badly coded NPC

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

There was blood on my socks.

Blood. On. My. Socks.

Blood. On. My. Hello. Kitty. Socks.

And not just a little but a lot. It was dripping on my hardwood floors, smearing on my wall, and now soaking through the hem of my favorite bunny pajama shorts.

One second I was heating up oat milk for my tea, and the next he burst through my front door like a horror movie villain and slapped a hand over my mouth before I could even scream.

His hand was warm and heavy and covered in blood. So much blood. I hate blood. I hate blood.

So, I just stood there.

Frozen.

Like a badly coded NPC in a video game.

I could feel my heart thudding all the way up my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brain went into full panic-flip mode. I mentally started to recite my vegan food pyramid.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

He looked at me again and smiled? How can he smile? At this time?! Like this?! When he is injured and in so much pain.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?” he asked and his voice was weirdly hot. It was like raspy and deep and kind of rough in a way that made my knees wobble. Oh god, he was probably only talking like that because he was beat up and half delirious.

Priorities, Maddie!

Then his knees buckled and he just collapsed.

Right into me.

Like a full-grown bleeding tree.

I squeaked... like, actually squeaked, because he was heavy. And hot, like, body temperature hot. I could feel it through my shirt. That can’t be good, right? That’s bad, right? Doesn’t heat mean infection or internal bleeding or—

Breathe. Breathe, Maddie. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like yoga. You took that one class with Steph, remember? Before she bailed and said the instructor was giving cult leader vibes? Yes. Good.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, nope, nope, that’s too much blood. I think I’m going to throw up.

I gingerly slid down to the floor, knees hitting hardwood, and he sort of folded with me, like a very large, injured, possibly criminal origami swan.

He smelled like gasoline and burnt metal and something darker, like violence if violence had a scent. His blood is hot. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud... or think.

Jason would totally know what to do, he’s a surgeon, and also my best friend, and thank the stars he lives right across the hall but he’s not here, because his shift at the hospital doesn’t end for like another hour.

“Okay, Mister... dying man,” I whispered, trying very hard not to sound like I’m crying even though I definitely am crying, “you can’t die here. Not on my floor. My landlord already hates me and this would just really push things over the edge.”

I fumbled for my phone but remembered that it was charging in the kitchen. Ten feet away. A lifetime. I glanced at the door, still chained and bolted, and then at him... this stranger with blood everywhere and bruises already blooming across his face and, oh, his lashes are really long.

Why am I noticing that right now?

I crawled toward the kitchen, whispering apologies with every creak of the floorboards. “I’m just going to get my phone,” I mumbled over my shoulder, in case he woke up mid-coma and gets the wrong idea, “and maybe a towel. Or twelve.”

My knees were shaking. I slipped once on the bloody wood and let out a weird little scream, it was like half mouse, half dying balloon. When I finally reached the counter and grabbed my phone, my hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I should call 911.

Right?

No. Big fat no. Because the moment I say “a man broke in and passed out from blood loss,” I become an accessory to whatever criminal nonsense this is. And I can't get into trouble, I can't, I'm not made for trouble. I’m not going down as the girl who helped hide a wanted felon. Or a hitman. Nope.

But I can’t just leave him here.

He said, “Please.”

He asked me not to scream, and he said please. Blood, tattoos, bruises and split skin, yes, but also a crease between his brows. A quiver in his fingers. A human. A hurting one.

And I knew that feeling. Of hurt. Of fear. Of being chased by monsters.

I wiped my palms on my thighs, which did nothing because my pajama shorts were bloody too. I tiptoed back into the room, and shared at his chest, he was breathing.

“Okay,” I said to the universe, to God, to the hot dying man on my floor, “okay, Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro, you got a B+ in first aid. You can do this.”

I scrambled to grab the first aid kit from the closet because, yes, I do keep it fully stocked, thank you very much. Some girls collect shoes. I collect trauma gauze. You never know when your rescue possum might slice a toe.

But halfway back across the room, arms full of peroxide and gauze and that one antibiotic cream that smells like sour lemons, he shifted. Twitched, really and then groaned.

“...No hospitals...” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice was so pain filled, “Please... no hospitals... they’ll find us... kill us...”

I froze.

The peroxide slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a thunk.

Kill us?

I blinked.

Kill us?

And then I panicked.

Why us?

I think he means, they might kill him, not me, right? Right?!

My chest squeezed and my hands went cold. My lungs forgot how to breathe properly, the way they do when I think about car crashes or open flames or my father’s face when he came home from fights that I wasn’t supposed to ask about.

He was still mumbling under his breath. I inched back until my shoulders hit the kitchen counter, arms hugging the first aid kit to my chest.

“They,” I whispered, “Who’s they? What is this? Why are men chasing you? Why did you have to pick my apartment? I live alone. I have a cat. His name is Flan. He hides in the toaster box when strangers knock. He can’t handle this either!”

I took a breath, gathered all the courage I could and crawled toward him again. Slower this time, like I would with a wounded dog.

“No hospitals,” I whispered, repeating his words like a promise. “Okay. Fine. No hospitals. But I am helping you. That’s non-negotiable.”

I peeled his shirt off as gently as I could. It was soaked in blood. His skin underneath was hot to the touch, too hot. Infection was coming, I could feel it. And I might hate violence, and I might be scared out of my flipping mind, but I know what sepsis looks like. And this man wasn’t dying in my apartment, not on my watch, not if I could stop it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair back, and got to work.

“You’re lucky, mister, that I know how to thread a needle. My mom used to say every woman should know how to cook, sew, and stitch. I only ever got good at one of those, and it wasn’t sewing. Sorry in advance if this hurts. Deep breaths, Maddie, deep breaths... we can panic later.”

His whole chest was filled with cuts, and smudged blood. A bullet wound in his shoulder, swollen and ugly. I could see where it grazed the flesh, but not deep enough to be fatal. Still, infection, blood loss, shock... all real risks.

I chewed my lip. “Mama would tell me to pour sugar on it,” I said, half to myself, half to him, “but I think you need saline and prayers more than kitchen remedies right now.”

I cleaned, stitched, bandaged. My hands shook but I did it. Clean, cut, compress. Just like Papa's old accident, except infinitely worse.

I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d seen wounded animals look like this. Cornered, bleeding, terrified. And he was human, yes but there was something wild in his face even when he was unconscious. Like a wolf, maybe. Something that didn’t belong in the middle of my tiny Chicago apartment surrounded by my plants and tea towels and my faint scent of lavender and lemongrass.

“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered, “or what you’re running from... but I hope... I hope you make it.”

I sat back on my heels. The towels were soaked red. The bandages were holding. He hadn’t stirred.

Somehow, against all logic, all panic, all everything, I’d managed to keep him alive until Jason gets here.

Just hold on, stranger. Just hang in there for a little longer. Jason will know what to do. He has fancy tools and calm hands and degrees and stuff. I’m just a girl with old sewing needles, way too many herbal teas, and exactly zero experience saving strangers from... whatever this is.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was going wild. I could feel it thudding everywhere, in my throat, in my fingertips, in my toes.

“You’re okay,” I whispered to myself, “You’re okay. He’s okay. Jason will be home soon. And I didn’t faint. That’s already a win.”

I gave a nervous, watery laugh.

Then I leaned down, gently, just to listen closer to his breathing. It was faint but it was still there.

- Signs someone is about to die in your bed

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Jason. Jason should be home by now.

I tore off the gloves, wiped my hands on a towel that already looked like a crime scene, and sprinted out the door in socks, no coat, no keys, just nerves and adrenaline.

I banged on Jason's door, looking around to see if the bad people were still here, looking to kill him and now... me.

“Jason!” I pounded on his door again, “Jason, please be home, please be home, please—”

The lock clicked.

His tired, just-got-off-a-26-hour-shift face peeked out, “Maddie? What—”

“Oh thank God, you’re here.” I barreled into his apartment without permission and turned around to grab his arm. “You have to come with me. Now. Please. It’s an emergency. A man. Bleeding. A lot of bleeding. My floor is ruined. His lung might be too. Maybe even his spleen. Can spleens bleed? I think they can.”

He blinked, “Wait, what? What man? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you—?”

“No, no, not me, I’m fine! I mean, I’m not fine, I think I’ve been in shock for the past hour, but I’m not the one dying on my rug, okay?” I tugged harder. “He broke in and locked the door. He was already bleeding and then he just collapsed. I patched him up but I don’t know what I’m doing! Well, I do know some things, because of Mamãe and Papai but this is—this is way above me.”

Jason had already grabbed his emergency bag because he’s the kind of person who has an emergency bag and was slipping on shoes.

“You let a bleeding man stay in your apartment?” he asked, jogging beside me as we stepped out of his apartment and ran to mine.

“He passed out on my floor, Jason! What was I supposed to do? Say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Mysterious Blood Loss Man, please die elsewhere’? I’m vegan. I can’t even kill a mosquito on purpose!”

We reached my door and I flung it open, “Please just fix him, okay? He’s still breathing. And I think I traumatized him trying to clean the wound because—”

He was dead?

I froze.

Jason stopped behind me.

The man still lay just where I left him. My makeshift bandages were still wrapped. There was a faint rise and fall of his chest. He was alive.

I let out a breath and whispered, “See? I told you.”

Jason blinked at the blood everywhere. “Jesus Christ, Maddie.”

I bit my lip, voice wobbling as I knelt back beside the stranger. “Can you help him? Please, Jason. Just… don’t ask questions right now. Just help him.”

Jason didn’t ask another word. He was already snapping on gloves. The moment he peeled back my last bandage, a fresh rush of red bubbled up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, he’s still bleeding. I thought I tied it right, I swear I tied it right. I mean, I double-knotted it like shoelaces and everything, does blood not listen to knots?”

Jason grunted, “You did okay. You slowed it. But the cut’s deep. He’s lucky he didn’t nick the lung.”

“I knew it looked lung-ish!” I clutched the hem of my bloodied pajama shirt, “Do lungs grow back? I mean, I know liver does but I don’t think—oh God. He’s gonna die and it’s gonna be my fault and he didn’t even ask to be here and what if—”

“Maddie.” Jason looked up for half a second, “Inhale. Exhale. Sit down or you’re going to faint on me.”

I obeyed so fast I landed on the floor with a thump. My knees hit the rug and I curled them to my chest like a human stress ball, “I didn’t even ask his name. He could be a Bob. Or a Kevin. He doesn’t look like a Kevin, though. He looks more like... I don't know, someone handsome. With cheekbones.”

Jason didn’t respond. He was focused on stitching. The kind of stitching I couldn’t do. Not on someone’s chest.

My heart twisted again when I saw the way the man’s face flinched in his sleep. Aw, he was in pain.

I didn’t know why, but something in me whispered he was a good guy.

Jason looked up at me, “Maddie. Is this guy in trouble?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “He just showed up in my apartment! Bleeding! Dying! And now he’s saying things that sound like he has enemies who—who kill people who go to the hospital, and oh my God, I knew this was going to be one of those days where I should’ve stayed in bed!”

Jason didn’t say anything for a full three seconds. His eyes flicked from the half-conscious man on the rug to me and back again.

“I know, I know what you’re gonna say,” I rushed out, waving my arms around, “Call the police, Maddie. Call an ambulance, Maddie. But no! Because—because he said no hospitals and I know it was mumbly and delirious but it was also really intense and you should’ve seen his face. He was serious and scary. Like, the kind of scary you don’t fake unless you’re a really good actor.”

Jason sighed. “Maddie…”

“No, listen!” I clutched his arm, “What if—what if he’s not a bad guy? What if he’s one of the good guys? Like—like a spy. Or—or a secret agent. Or someone running from, I don’t know, dangerous people with helicopters. You know I have an overactive imagination, but what if it’s right this time?”

“He had a bullet in him, Maddie.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean he shot anyone!” I countered, “That proves that he was the one being chased. Maybe he saved someone. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Jason rubbed his face.

“Okay. So. I have a plan.” I clapped once. “We move him to the bed. I’ll make chamomile compresses. You already did the stitching, you’re amazing. I’ll give him some painkillers—nothing super strong, just the kind I use when I drop kettlebells on my toes. You can handle the prescriptions for infection and whatever else. And I’ll watch him! No one will know. No cops. No questions. Just quiet, peaceful, low-crime-zone healing.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re going to drag a bullet-ridden stranger into your bed and pretend everything’s normal.”

“Obviously. New sheets. Clean pillowcases. He needs it more than me right now, Jay.”

Jason shook his head in disbelief but stood, “You are crazy, Maddie.”

“Crazy and helpful,” I chirped, already flinging open the linen closet for towels. “Now help me carry him.”

Between the two of us, we managed to lift the man onto the bed. He was heavy because he had strong, solid, muscle-everywhere. He groaned once when Jason shifted his shoulder, and I immediately apologized like I’d stepped on his foot.

“Sorry! Sorry! You’re doing great. So brave. So unconscious. We love that for you.”

We got him on the bed, propped up his torso with a pillow, and Jason adjusted the bandages again.

“I’ll give him some acetaminophen,” I said. “And maybe some valerian root, because that’s good for calming nerves and I’m pretty sure he has some.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

“Oh, I already had two lavender capsules,” I said, “And some Rescue Remedy while I was waiting for you to come home. I might also start crying in the next ten minutes, but I’m emotionally versatile.”

When Jason was done, he stood and started packing up, “I’m trusting you, Maddie.”

“You can always trust me. I babysit kittens.”

“Call me if anything goes sideways, alright?”

“Will do!” I chirped, way too peppy for someone standing in blood-soaked socks.

Jason gave me one last warning look, before stepping out, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” I muttered to the door after it clicked shut behind him. “I already let a bleeding, beautiful man with murder-eyes and a bullet hole into my living room. I’m doomed. I’m so doomed.”

I turned around slowly, taking it all in: blood smeared across the floor, the couch, me. My favorite yellow throw pillow was soaked. The coffee table looked like the surgeon's table.

My apartment looked like I sacrificed a goat in the name of Satan.

And then I got to work because if I didn’t, I was pretty sure I’d just sit down and cry.

I tossed anything soaked in his blood straight into garbage bags, trying not to think about how incredibly suspicious it all looked. Like, if anyone decided to peek inside, I'd be screwed.

Once the floors were scrubbed, the couch wiped down, and the throw pillows mourned and replaced, I stumbled to the bathroom. I peeled off my ruined clothes, dumped them straight into a plastic bag, and stepped into the shower.

The water hit me and for a second, I just stood there, forehead against the tile. I watched his blood swirl down the drain off my body.

When I was clean, I pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I walked back to my bedroom.

I peeked at the stranger, his long lashes, his chest rising and falling. I sat on the floor beside the bed and tucked the covers up around him.

“No hospitals,” I whispered. “No cops. No questions.”

Then because I couldn't help myself, I added, “But if you are an assassin or something, please don’t kill me when you wake up. I make really good pancakes. Vegan. Banana oat. I'll make them for you.”

I couldn’t sleep.

Of course I couldn’t sleep. There was a strange, injured, unconscious, bleeding man in my bed.

Well, not bleeding now, exactly. More like... healing. His breathing was more even. Less rattly. He hadn’t made a sound in the past hour, which was either a really good thing or a really, really bad one, but I decided not to spiral about that.

I’d already used up my spiral quota when I googled “signs someone is about to die in your bed” and then had to delete my search history just in case the FBI thought I was planning something.

Which I wasn’t, obviously.

Anyway.

I sat in my armchair with my knees pulled up to my chest, a mug of chamomile tea clutched in my hands, and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

I couldn’t help but whisper to him now and then. It was silly, I know. He couldn’t hear me but I had a habit of talking too much.

“I don’t like the idea of someone dying alone. Especially not on a cold night. Especially not when I could do something, even if it’s just... wrapping towels around them and staying by their side.”

I set the mug down and stood slowly, creeping toward him. The bandages were still secure, there was no new blood. His lips weren’t as pale anymore, and his forehead wasn’t as clammy as before. I pressed the back of my hand gently to his cheek, it was warm. Not feverish, just warm.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure. “You’re in a safe place. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

I stood there for a while, watching him breathe.

I bit my lip, then reached over and gently adjusted the blanket on his chest and sat down on the floor beside the bed.

“If you wake up and try to kill me, I hope you at least feel a little bad about it,” I whispered.

I was only going to rest my eyes. Just for a second.

I swear, I really did mean to stay awake but there I was, slouched sideways by my bed, head lolling dangerously close to my shoulder, still wrapped up in my favorite yellow throw blanket, the one with the tiny embroidered suns.

The last thing I remember was trying to tell him a story about how my neighbor’s cat broke into my pantry and ate all my cereal, and how I cried for three days because it was the good kind with the cinnamon clusters and I didn't have any money to buy new ones but halfway through explaining, my head dipped forward.

My cheek landed on the mattress near his arm.

I was too tired to move.

The sheets still smelled faintly of antiseptic and chamomile. The soft hush of his breathing rose and fell beside me. I couldn’t even open my eyes again. I think I mumbled something—I don’t know what. Maybe “don’t die.” Maybe “I put your blood-stained shirt in with my good towels.”

Either way, I was out cold in seconds.

Curled up beside a man I should probably be terrified of.

Wrapped in yellow cotton sunshine.

- Not-so-dead houseguest.

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The world came in flashes, everything was blurred and sounds that stretched too long or cut too short.

My mouth wouldn’t work, my fucking body wouldn’t move. My tongue was heavy like I’d been gagged, drugged, drowned. I tried to speak but nothing came out only a cracked exhale.

Where the fuck am I?

A ceiling that wasn't mine. It was stained with a water mark near the corner. There was a plant hanging from a hook. What the fuck kind of place was this? It wasn't a hospital because it was too quiet.

But someone drugged me, they fucking drugged me like hell.

There was pain... burning, dragging, twisting pain in my gut and shoulder. Even under the blanket of drugs, it pulsed like a second heartbeat.

They didn’t finish the job.

Cowards.

I could still feel them. The faces covered with masks, the heat of the bullets and the cold metal pressed to my ribs before I snapped his wrist. The taste of blood.

The blur of the hallway walls as I ran, before it all slipped.

And now this.

There was movement.

It was too soft to be a threat.

Bare feet, the brush of fabric. Then there was a presence, and it was close. I blinked through the burn in my eyes as a shadow shifted beside me.

Hair.

Her.

That girl.

That girl with the shaking body and those big sun-like eyes like she’d never seen blood before.

There was a cloth, it was cool on my face. It smelled clean, and gentle. She touched me again but it was barely a graze.

Fingertips on my forehead.

I should’ve moved my head away but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even raise my arm. I wasn’t in my skin, I was hovering over it, watching her cradle what was left of me like I was glass.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Safe,” she whispered.

No one’s safe. Not me. Not her.

Especially not her.

She was in over her head. I saw it in her eyes. The moment I collapsed in her hallway. She was terrified. And now she’s... here. In reach. So close.

Was she fucking stupid?

The pain surged and my jaw clenched involuntarily. It felt like my guts were being chewed from the inside.

I tried to speak but I couldn't even move my tongue let alone my lips.

Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

I’m going to kill them.

Whoever set that up and whoever pulled that trigger and whoever gave me drugs, every single one of them is going to bleed for this.

I just need to get up.

I just need to move.

Just—

“Shhh,” she said.

The cloth again. A stroke over my temple. I wanted to swat her hand away, grab her wrist, bark at her to stop touching me like I was some stray in her bathtub but my fucking fingers wouldn’t respond.

She was saying something else. I caught pieces of it, something about fever, pain meds, not out of the woods and I needed to rest.

Fucking poetic.

She didn’t sound scared now, not exactly, nervous, yeah, soft, yeah, but not scared.

The bed dipped and she moved. I felt the shift, she was closer now, breathing slowly. She whispered something about being nearby if I woke up scared.

I don’t get scared.

I just get even.

There was a cat somewhere. I heard it. Purring and the girl talked to it. She called it Flan.

The fuck kind of name is Flan?

My mind was slipping again. Heat crawled up my neck. The sweat soaked through the gauze at my side. My ribs ached. I wanted to sit up and I wanted to fight someone.

Instead, I turned my head, it was barely an inch and saw her.

She was curled on the floor, and there was a bright yellow blanket over her legs. Her hair spilled down, hiding part of her face. Her hand rested on the side of the bed... near mine.

Fuck, I was fucking broken everywhere, half-dead, and this girl, this stupid girl was guarding me with a fucking cat.

If they come for me here, they’ll kill her too.

I don’t know why that thought lodged in my throat.

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

I’m not saying I have bad luck, but the moment I walked into the pharmacy, a ceiling tile above me coughed out a suspicious puff of dust and something white and powdery landed in my hair. And not in a pretty, snowflake-slow-falling kind of way. No. It was aggressive, like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I stood there in the automatic doors’ path, blinking up at the ceiling.

A little old man shuffled past me with his newspaper and said, “You’ve got dandruff, lady.”

Brilliant start.

I shook myself off and marched on to aisle three to get the supplies.

“Right,” I muttered to myself, scanning the shelves, “I need... um. Gauze. Bandages. Alcohol. Antibiotic cream. Ointment. Stuff for gunshot wounds, oh God, do they even make gunshot wound kits?”

The woman stocking vitamins gave me a startled look, like I’d just admitted to burying bodies in my garden. I gave her a thumbs up. She did not return it.

I reached for the antiseptic spray, then froze.

Wallet. Money. Crap.

I dug through my bag and counted out my savings. I’d been quietly stashing money away, one coin at a time, for my next and last semester. But now I was about to blow half of it on gauze and antibiotic cream for a bleeding stranger.

I took a deep breath, counted the bills and when I reached the checkout, the clerk looked at me, “Someone hurt?” he asked.

“Oh! No! Yes. I mean, not me. Well, kind of, emotionally, always but no. It’s for... well. A friend. Acquaintance. A wounded man. He has very soulful eyes and didn’t murder me, so that’s already five stars in my book.”

The clerk blinked at me. I blinked back.

The man said nothing, just bagged my items slowly. I handed over half my sad little savings and tried not to wince.

Outside, the sky was a weird mix of lavender and polluted orange. It was that awkward time of day when streetlights flickered on too early and pigeons got confused. I hugged the bag to my chest and sighed.

“You’re doing the right thing,” I told myself. “You’re being a good person. You’re not enabling a fugitive. You’re helping someone who needs help.”

A seagull landed in front of me, eyed my plastic bag, and shrieked.

“Don’t judge me, Kevin,” I snapped. (I always call the rude birds Kevin. It helps.)

On the way home, I made a little detour. I stopped by Carlos’s place, my boyfriend and the love of my life.

I rang the bell and waited, the door flew open a moment later. Carlos stood there in a wrinkled T-shirt and messy hair, blinking at me like I was a ghost.

“Hi!” I chirped, “I was just, um, in the area and I thought, Maddie, your boyfriend hasn’t seen your face in four whole days and that’s basically a crime, so here I am!”

He stared at me, eyes wide like I’d grown another head. He didn’t even open the door fully to invite me in, he just slipped outside and shut it behind him.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it was suddenly itchy, “What are you doing here?”

I smiled brightly, “I brought snacks! And... oh, antiseptic spray. Long story. You won’t believe the night I’ve had. There was this man—”

he breathed out a sigh that made me stop, woah, was I bothering him?

“You look tired,” I said quickly, “Like, extra tired. You know what you need right now? A walk and a double shot espresso straight to the bloodstream. Anyway—”

“Maddie,” he cut in, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, “I just woke up and I need to be at work in an hour.”

I froze, brain doing mental backflips, “Oh my god. Right. Right. You’re going to work. Go! Shower, coffee, save lives, all that good stuff.”

He gave me a look.

I smiled, “Hero mode activated. I’ll just, um, leave you alone now. Let you... EMT yourself. That’s not a verb but I’m gonna go.”

He gave me a quick smile, “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Sure!” I chirped. “Later is good. I’ve got… bandages to apply.”

I backed away, heart doing something really dramatic in my chest but I smiled anyway. He’d been working nonstop lately, saving lives, running on fumes, barely sleeping. I should be supportive, not clingy.

But... why does it feel like he’s about to break up with me?

Is it just me? Am I overthinking? Or did I ruin everything by being too much? Too available? Too... myself?

I bit the inside of my cheek, heart doing this weird slow-sinking thing in my chest.

I didn’t mean to mess it up. I just really liked him and maybe I got too excited.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Maybe he’s just tired. Long shift. Stress. Sirens and stretchers and all that EMT things.

I’m probably just overthinking it... right?

It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.

I picked at a thread on my sleeve, trying to laugh it off in my head, but it caught in my throat like a splinter as I walked back to my place.

𓎢𓎠𖦁‎𓎠𓎡

I dumped everything from the pharmacy onto the kitchen counter, gauze, antiseptic, pain meds, way more than I could afford and peeked into the bedroom.

He was still out cold, just like Jason said he would be. His breathing was steady, bandages were holding and he was still alive. Thank God.

My fingers were shaking as I picked up my phone.

I stared at my dad’s name for a solid minute before pressing call. The ring buzzed in my ear once and my lungs forgot how to work until it picked up.

“Alô?” his voice sounded uncertain.

My throat clenched, “Oi… It’s me,” I said softly, skipping my name.

Then there was silence.

“I don't know you, you have the wrong number,” he said.

My heart drowned in my stomach.

I scrambled to keep him on the line, “Wait—wait, please,” I whispered fast, curling into myself on the kitchen floor, my arm wrapping around my ribs, “Sorry, senhor, I just, are you okay? Is your family okay?”

I heard him sigh.

“I don’t know who you are. If this is another prank, chega. Enough. This isn't funny anymore, understand?”

His accent got thicker when he was scared, that’s how I knew.

I bit down on my lip to keep it from wobbling, blinking hard to push the tears back, “Desculpa, senhor. Sorry,” I said quickly, lowering my voice, playing along, “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.” I sniffled and wiped my face even though it wouldn’t help.

“Don’t call again.”

I heard what he didn’t say, they’re still watching. Still listening.

“Wait—I—”

Click.

Just like that, the call ended.

But I got what I needed, they were alive. They were still hiding. And Appa, he was still protecting me the only way he could.

By pretending I was already gone.

Sighing, I refilled the first-aid kit with shaky hands, gauze, antiseptic, everything in its place, even if nothing in my life felt remotely in place right now.

Then I tiptoed back into the bedroom to check on my not-so-dead houseguest.