~MATILDA~
"Sorry Tilly, you're a good person, but we really aren't compatible…"
It was almost midnight since the break up 9 hours ago, but the words still rang in my ears as I stumbled out of the small bar at the corner of the empty street.
"A good person card again? Damn it! Am I collecting them like stamps?" I let out a bitter laugh, half a sigh, half a curse.
Another rejection... No, my fifteenth rejection just at the age of twenty-five. Funny enough, right?
I raised my head and looked at the blurred stars above the city. My eyes stung. "Am I really so unlucky with men? Even if I am, does fate have to rub it in every time?"
Common, fifteen times already is way too much for me to handle!
Why do I even still expect anything different? Maybe I was truly cursed from the beginning. Parents gone at ten, life always unlucky and love always slipping away.
Perhaps it was time to just let go of the word, "LOVE!"
I hugged my black thin jacket close, walked quickly, and lowered my head. My footsteps were unstable as I felt the earlier beer burning in my throat.
The street was quiet saved for a few cars that rushed past, their lights flashing by but gone in an instant. The bus stop stood ahead while I dragged myself to the empty bench.
I sat down, my heart felt heavy, as if weighed down by stones. The city was full of people, yet why did I feel so alone?
Just as I snapped my head to the side, I saw... a man.
He was leaning against the side of the bus shelter, his figure half-hidden by the glass panel. His white shirt sleeve was torn, and crimson dripped steadily from his arm, pooling on the cold pavement.
I froze. For a second, I thought it was a trick of the light, an illusion conjured by my tired eyes. But then he shifted slightly, his breath shallow, and his body trembling.
Blood? It was real!
My heart leapt into my throat. "Hey! Are you alright?" I rushed forward without thinking, squatting down beside him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Amber... his eyes were amber. Bright, fierce, impossible to look away from. That one glance pierced straight through me, making my pulse skip wildly.
He was beautiful, too beautiful to be real. His features were sharp yet refined, his jawline strong, his lips pale from blood loss. Even in such a state, his presence was overwhelming, as if he just walked out of a romance novel.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm. "You're injured! I'll call an ambulance right now—"
Before I could take out my phone, his cold hand clamped down on my wrist.
"No."
His voice was low, magnetic, filled with a strange authority that made me pause involuntarily.
"No?" I looked at him, stunned. "But you're bleeding! If I don't call—"
"Don't call anyone!" His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.
For a moment, I was speechless. What kind of person refuses help when they're bleeding like this? Was he afraid of the police? Or… was he hiding from someone?
Countless thoughts rushed through my mind, but his grip was steady, unshakable. Even injured, his presence was powerful, as if the air around him bent to his will, which it did.
I bit my lip. "Then… What do you expect me to do? At least let me help you stop the bleeding."
After a long silence, he released my hand whilst his eyes never left mine.
"Fine, do it."
I quickly pulled the red scarf from my neck and tore a strip from it. My fingers trembled as I wrapped the cloth around his arm, pressing down firmly. My scarf was cheap, the fabric soft, but it was better than nothing.
His blood was warm against my hands but I tried not to think about it.
Up close, his cologne reached me. Clean, sharp, and almost intoxicating. There was something wild in it, something untamed. My heartbeat quickened again, and I hated myself for noticing.
Focus, Matilda. He's hurt. That's all that matters.
When I tied the knot on the makeshift bandage, I risked another glance at his face. His lashes were long, his expression calm despite the pain. He looked less like a wounded man and more like… a sleeping predator, dangerous even in stillness.
I quickly looked away, cheeks burning. Ridiculous! I just helped him out of basic human decency. Nothing serious.
"I can't stay here," finally, he spoke again, his voice faint but melody in my ear.
"What do you mean?" I blinked.
"Take me with you." His eyes locked onto mine, pleading. "I need a place just for tonight."
I was stunned. Take him home? A stranger as handsome as him? Was I insane?But when I looked at him again, those eyes… There was something in them I couldn't refuse.
My heart wavered and against all reason, I nodded. "Alright, come with me."
Oh, don't give me that sneer... cause' have you seen him? You will definitely say yes if you were in my shoes.
Supporting him, I half-led, half-carried him away from the bus stop. He was heavy, his body solid with muscle, yet he leaned on me with surprising gentleness, careful not to crush me under his weight.
Every step felt surreal. A stranger, bleeding and breathtaking, followed me home at midnight. If anyone saw us, what would they think?
But no one did because the streets were deserted. It was as if the world had cleared the way for us, leaving only him and me.
When we reached my apartment, I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking. The door creaked open, revealing the tiny living room inside.
A couch with worn fabric. A small glass coffee table, an open laptop on the desk beside scattered papers and an unfinished cup of water.
Everything was ordinary but tonight, it felt different.
I helped him inside, lowering him carefully onto the couch. His weight sank into the cushions, his body towering even in weakness. I hurried to the kitchen, filled a bowl with warm water, and brought back a towel. My heart thudded as I knelt beside him again.
"Hold still, I need to clean the wound."
He said nothing, only watched me quietly, his gaze calm.
I pressed the damp towel against his arm, wiping away the blood. My movements were clumsy, but I tried to be gentle. The water in the bowl turned red, swirling like ink spreading across paper.
His skin was warm, his muscles tense under my fingers. Every time my hand brushed against him, my pulse skipped.
Why was I so nervous? He was just a man, a stranger. That's all. But deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple.
"Thank you."
The silence was broken by his voice, more softer this time. I froze, then shook my head quickly.
"Don't thank me. Anyone would have done the same."
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. Who else would bring a bleeding stranger home without questions because he's handsome? Only a fool like me!
I sighed, wringing out the towel. "What on earth happened to you? Did someone attack you?"
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning back against the couch. "It doesn't matter... You don't need to know."
His words should have reassured me. Instead, they stirred my unease. A stranger with a wound, a man too proud to seek help, and too calm despite the pain. Who exactly was he?
I opened my mouth, but the questions died on my tongue. He didn't want to talk, and I couldn't press further.
Given the nature of my work as an investigative journalist at Southern Cross Network (SCN) TV Station, I should have interrogated him more. But those bewitching eyes of his, gats my lips locked up.
Rather, I sat there, staring intensely at him with his eyes already closed, admiring his dark full long lashes.
Tonight, fate had placed him in front of me. Bleeding, vulnerable, yet radiant like fire in the dark.
And I... foolish, unlucky me--had brought him home!