You catch a full look at him from over your shoulder.

He is a proverbial giant compared to the small shed. You’ve never seen anyone his size, much less someone who is likely around your age, but all you really notice is how sunken his face looks. His complexion is sallow, highlighted by the soft light silver color of the hair flopping over his squinting eyes.

You also notice that he’s shirtless with a bright red jacket spread out beneath him, wearing only boots and baggy pants. Looking away quickly, you sprint toward the back door to the house, trouncing through the high grass and the garden until you skid to a stop in the kitchen. Opening the cabinet you know holds the first aid kit, you rush back out the door and close it tightly, hoping nobody’s home to be nosy.

Certain you aren’t being followed, you run back to the shed, out of breath by the time you reach it, practically falling to your knees at his side.

Dropping the kit on the ground, you flip it open and scan the contents for antiseptic ointment, digging through novelty bandages and gauze pads.

“Where are you injured?” you ask, attention averted from him so you don’t notice his scowling.

“I told you not to come back.”

Shaking your head, you finally turn to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Well, I did,” you start, nodding toward his arm.

“Show me where you’re hurt, please.”

Unenthusiastically, he holds his arm close to his body.

You hum to yourself, digging through your mental bag of tricks to see if you can find a way to soften him even slightly, settling on small talk.

“What’s your name?”

Scoffing, he looks down at you. “Why do you care?”

Despite the bad attitude, he finally extends his arm, eyes remaining narrowed.

“You don’t have to be rude,” you mutter under your breath, pushing the first aid kit aside a tad more forcefully than necessary until you remember he’s hurt and probably has far more reason to be irritable than you.

With a sharp exhale, you lean toward his extended arm, brows furrowing when you realize this is a gouge too deep to simply bandage.

“I’m going to have to, uh, stitch that,” you point at his arm, miming the motion of putting thread through a needle with your hands. “Let me go inside and grab my sewing kit.”

“Don’t come back this time.”

Temper flaring, you ball your fists and lean toward him.

“Why don’t you just lay there and be quiet? I don’t know what your problem is, I’m only trying to help!”

Rising to your feet, you turn on your heel and stomp toward the open door. The stranger watches your movements, still unsure if you’re friend or foe, breathing heavier as the pain in his arm surges through his body.

This situation is so fucked up.

He can heal himself when he isn’t weak from hunger and lack of sleep. Unfortunately, that’s the exact state he’s in, leaving him to bleed alone and hope his wound doesn’t get infected.

Sighing, he lies back down, lifting his good arm to cover his eyes.

He can handle this on his own if he just gets a little crafty and rests for just a little longer, like he was before you so rudely woke him up with your little flashlight act.

Recalling how he ended up here, he wonders if the demon he was fighting two days ago is still around. Suddenly more alert than ever, he removes his arm from his eyes and sits up, grateful that the kind of beast that thing was only tends to lurk at night.

The sound of your footsteps alert him and he sits halfway up, still covering his sensitive eyes to hide them from the sun.

“Okay, back.”

Paying no mind to his frustrated grunt, you find yourself on your knees beside him once more, unwinding the heaviest thread you could find in your kit while you place the largest needle in your collection between your teeth.

“Since nothing I says convinces you, do what you’re here for and leave me alone.”

Shrugging, you reach for the needle to thread it.

“Fine.”

You agreed far too easily to mean it. Even if he barely knows you, it’s obvious that you don’t take instruction well.

“Lay back and give me your arm,” you order now that the needle is threaded, holding your free hand out.

The young man obliges, letting you manipulate the positioning until his arm is across your lap, giving you a clear view of what you’re working with. You grimace looking at the red flesh and the dried blood, stomach turning when you envision how badly infected this could get without attention.

Reaching around the ground, you find the bottle of antiseptic you carried back and pop the lid open with your thumb, pouring it over the sizable gash.

He hisses in response, kicking his booted feet like a child.

“That hurts!”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, mouth set in an unimpressed line. “You look like you can handle it.”

Just how old is this guy? He looks like he’s your age, maybe a bit older, but he acts like he’s a surly middle schooler. His dramatics continue for only a few minutes more, ceasing when you hold the needle inches away from his skin.

It’s apparent to him that you’re anxious, shoulders hunched and eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you okay?”

You hum an affirmative response, lowering the needle and poking it through his skin. It hurts less than he expected, the poke lasting only a second. He wouldn’t have reacted anyway, using most of his energy on his previous display.

His eyes watch you drag the needle from one side of his wound to the other, your fingertips reminding him what he witnessed when he first woke up.

“What were you doing earlier?”

You tilt your head to the side, keeping your eyes where they need to be to get this done.

“What do you mean?”

“With your fingers, the light woke me up.”

“Oh, uh,” you start awkwardly, trying to keep your attention on the needle you’re currently pulling through the separated flaps of his skin. “Shoot, I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”

“First time?”

You shrug. “Human flesh is different from a needlepoint canvas.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he presses, hissing as a particularly tender spot has thread that isn’t appropriate for this task dragged across it.

“Yes I did,” you argue back, eyes narrowing as you lean in closer to inspect how poor of a job you’re doing.

“Not that one smart ass, the other one.”

“You have absolutely no manners, did you know that?”

“And you have too many of them,” he argues, pointing to his arm. “Or maybe not enough considering you’re performing surgery on a guy you don’t even know.”

He has a point so you don’t argue, aware of just how much trouble you’d be in if one of your grandparents or siblings were to stumble upon this little scenario.

“I don’t know what I was doing. It’s just this thing that happens when I focus really hard and, ugh,” you cut yourself off.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Oh but it does. Even through the haze of pain, you’ve piqued his interest for the moment.

“Keep talking, it hurts less when you do.”

Your face softens slightly even if you don’t look his way, comforted by the idea that you have comforted him even a little bit.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

He shrugs, taking a deep breath. “Whatever you want.”

Shifting where you sit with your legs tucked beneath you, your mind rushes to pick something you think he’d be interested in. He probably wouldn’t care about the book you’re reading nor the song you were listening to when you found him. You don’t really know how to describe the little energy situation so you pick what you know best.

“Why did the cookie go to the hospital?”

Groaning, he lays back, keeping his arm in your lap.

“Don’t say whatever you’re about to say next.”

“He was feeling crummy,” you proceed regardless, giggling mostly at yourself upon completion.

“I said talk, not tell me the worst joke on earth.”

You shrug flippantly which masks your surprise at how quickly you’ve managed to close up the wound, albeit poorly. The tools are wrong and your knowledge is limited to stitching bunnies and polite sayings on canvases for your grandmother to frame but you are a little bit impressed regardless.

“I’m done.”

The young man sits up halfway to inspect your work, eyes flitting from his arm to your face. It catches him off guard to get a good look at you, a bit surprised that you’re as cute as you are considering the attitude you keep giving him.

He supposes an attitude like that is something only a cute girl can get away with and you did decide to help him, the pain in his arm stinging but now the wound is clean and closed.

“My name’s Dante,” he finally divulges, sitting all the way up and looking down at you.

You smile at him, patting his arm that he has yet to withdraw.

“Well thank you for letting me help you.”

He nods, an awkward silence falling until you decide to try your luck and see how much more information you can get out of him.

“How did you end up here?”

Sighing, he takes a moment to decide how much of the truth to tell you. He was fighting a demon on a well paying job, bit off more than he could chew on his own, stumbled around for several miles and decided to hide inside the first abandoned structure he could find.

“I, uh…was in a fight not too far from here and needed to find a place to recover.”

You nod, hand still on his arm.

“This used to be my grandfather’s workshop before he got too busy to keep woodworking, I usually come out here to be by myself so it surprised me to find you.”

“Do you live with your grandparents?”

“Yeah, my parents sort of just didn’t want to do the whole mom and dad thing so they brought us to my mom’s parents to handle. I’ve been here since I was five.”

That’s a mere few years younger than he was when he lost his own family. He frowns, shifting uncomfortably.

“Sorry.”

You shrug.

“It’s okay, it happened and I can’t change it. Me and my sisters do just fine here even if the expectations are high but you don’t really want to hear about all that.”

On the contrary, he sort of thinks that he might, leaning in closer.

“You can keep talking if you want.”

Shaking your head, you look up at him nervously.

“Do you have anywhere to go? I can have my grandpa drive you there when he gets home tonight.”

Dante shrugs, suddenly feeling awkward. “Uh, not really but don’t worry about it.”

You tilt your head to the side curiously, eyeing him up and down.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he responds flatly.

Same as you. Good to know.

“Can I at least convince you to come inside and eat?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he admits, nervous and armed with the knowledge that the demon he was hunting may still be active in the area.

“You won’t heal if you don’t eat.”

That stubborn streak you presented earlier flashes itself once again. You continue to look up at him, that oh-so-cute face softening his resolve with each bat of your lashes.

Cute girls are the worst thing in the world.

With a groan, he withdraws his arm from your lap and crosses it awkwardly over his bare chest.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. “One meal.”

The smile that crosses your face when you get your way is as sweet as any you’ve ever seen. He wonders how many times you’ve ever truly been meaningfully told no and if he’s just another in a long line of cute girl victims.

-

You left him to sleep in the shed until a little after sunset, returning with a t-shirt that’s slightly too small for him of unknown origin and to drag him in through the back doors of the house while demanding he take his shoes off at the door.

He, of course, obliged you. It’s the least he can do now with all you’ve done for him today. Following you obediently, the two of you walk in tandem until you fully enter the kitchen as a pair.

You wave your hand in his direction while the people he can obviously tell are your grandparents and your two sisters all turn to look at him.

“This is my friend Dante. Is it alright if he joins us for dinner tonight?”

If looks could kill, the young man would certainly have dropped dead by now thanks to the venomous expression on your grandfather’s face. He’s no stranger to this type of reaction, drawing ire from most of the adults he encounters based off of his rough edges yet the scorn in this expression is something different.

It’s as if the man can tell that Dante has a budding crush on his precious granddaughter.

“Where did you meet him?” he asks, voice practically dripping with disappointment.

You refuse to answer.

“Can he stay for dinner?”

Your grandmother intervenes, stepping away from her husband to approach the young man standing next to you, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder even if he flinches when she does. Her eyes travel from his face to his arm and widen when she spots the gash, deciding to mention it later to diffuse the encounter.

“Of course, your friends are always welcome here,” she insists, offering him a smile similar to your own. “Come on dear, why don’t I show you the bathroom so you can wash up?”

Your eyes don’t move from your grandfather even as your newfound friend is escorted into the long hallway by your grandmother.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dante. Don’t mind him, he’s just overprotective of her. She’s his pride and joy and a very good girl.”

If he reads too much into the implication of the woman’s words, he may go crazy so he simply nods and remembers that he does have manners.

“Thank you, I’m sorry for the short notice.”

She once again smiles at him as they arrive in front of the hall bathroom. Reaching for the handle, she swings the door open.

“It’s not a problem at all. The dining room is right over,” she points to a room adjacent to the hall, across from the bathroom. “There. We’ll be waiting whenever you’re done.”

-

It’s after the meal when he stands outside of the heavy oak door of your grandfather’s study, his hand gripping the opposite injured forearm while overhearing what is clearly an argument between yourself and the man who is raising you.

“He has nowhere to go!”

Your stubbornness is not reserved only for Dante, something he’s strangely amused to discover.

“Lower your voice,” your grandfather responds.

“No! I do everything you ask me to, all I want is this one thing and you won’t even budge a little. He’s hurt, he’s hungry. He needs a shower, he stinks!”

Dante sniffs himself hearing your elevated exchange, nose wrinkling slightly when his scent hits. So he does stink. And he’s tired and he’s hungry and he’s entirely alone in the world. He really doesn’t wanna stay but he can’t deny the allure of a bed and a hot shower, the luxury of a hot and nutritious meal perhaps spoiling him enough he wants to be further indulged.

“One night.”

You stomp your foot audibly and he imagines your eyebrows furrowed, your narrow eyed glare.

“Did you see that thing on his arm? That’s not going to heal in one night.”

Looking down at the angry, red, poorly stitched gash he unfortunately has to agree. He’s already been dealing with the pain for a couple of days and could deal with it for longer.

“Then we’ll take him to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Grandpa, no! He doesn’t need that, he just needs to stay here for a few days at least,” you retort quickly.

Dante sighs. He doesn’t want that either considering what could possibly still be lurking even if it may be for the best if he sticks around the area to take the thing out.

Maybe that’s what he’ll do. Stay here long enough to stake out, collect the demonic bastard's head and then go collect his bounty money. You’ll be a distant memory before he knows it.

“One night.”

“Three nights,” you argue.

“One.”

He hears you sniffle through the door, your voice cracking when you speak.

“Please,” you beg, sniffling again. “I don’t ask for anything and he’s hurt so bad. I promise I’ll take some extra courses or do some extra work or whatever you want me to but he needs to stay here.”

It has been a very long time since Dante has had someone fight for him this hard.

He’s made friends throughout his life though they’ve been fleeting and he’s mostly only ever managed to get them hurt as a result of their association. Even Nell, the woman he lived with for years who he came to see as a mother, ended up dying when he couldn’t get to her before a demon could.

It’s a really, really bad idea for him to stay longer than it takes to get his job done and heal his arm. A good night's rest and a good meal tomorrow will likely be enough to give him the energy to regenerate. He wishes he could or would’ve told you this, even if a strange feeling has welled in his chest listening to you.

You really do care. Maybe not about him specifically but about his situation and that’s enough for him to honor your wishes, whatever they may be, until he disappears.

“He can stay until the gash is gone,” your grandfather finally agrees. “But if you slip up even a tiny bit while he’s here, you’ll be dealing with me about it.”

What does slipping up look like for an alleged very good girl?

Dante sighs, conflicted.

The door to the study swings open and you peek around the corner, reaching to wipe your puffy eyes. Those tears don’t appear to have been crocodile and once again, that strange feeling wells inside of the young man who looks at you curiously.

“You can stay until your arm is better,” you confirm with a watery smile, shutting the door behind you and entering the hallway.

He smiles, gratefully, and you think about how cute he is when he actually does smile and not scowl or roll his eyes or glare.

Reaching to loop your arm in his, you pull him down the hallway until you get to the door at the very end.