ᗩᒪIEᑎ

*****

Five months ago.

The first time he showed up, you almost didn't let him in.

Blood dripping down his knuckles. He had one arm sliced open, shirt soaked with blood. Should’ve gone to the ER Split lip. 

He slumped into the waiting room chair like he owned the place, not even looking at you.

The first thing he said to you?

"Fix it." Didn't ask. Didn't explain.

Yep. That's how your first meeting went. A bleeding man ordering you around like he was the boss.

You were new here. Fresh out of residency, eager to prove yourself.

And the bleeding was bad. So you sighed, snapped on your gloves, and got to work.

He didn't thank you. Didn't even look at you the whole time. Just stared at the wall like he wanted to punch through it.

You figured you'd never see him again.

*****

Second visit.

New injuries. Same attitude.

"Back again?" you asked, already pulling out the antiseptic.

He grunted.

You worked in silence. He flinched once when you hit a deep cut on his ribs, but didn't make a sound otherwise.

"Someone's doing a number on you," you said quietly.

He didn't answer.

*****

Third visit.

Something shifted.

He walked in and his eyes found you immediately. Held for a second longer than before. Like he was checking that you were still there.

"You again," he said. Almost like a greeting.

"Me again," you echoed, already reaching for your kit. "You really need to stop getting into fights."

He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You counted that as a win.

*****

Fourth visit.

He spoke first.

"Long day?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Long week, actually."

He nodded. Didn't say anything else.

But when you leaned in to clean a cut on his jaw, he didn't pull away like he used to.

He just... watched you.

"You're staring," you muttered.

"Am I?"

"Stop it."

"Make me."

You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He didn't flinch, just grinned.

Jerk.

*****

Fifth. Sixth. Seventh...

He started coming every week. Sometimes twice.

You told yourself it was just bad luck. Some people are accident-prone. It's not your job to ask questions.

But you noticed things.

The way he relaxed when you touched him. The way his breathing slowed when you leaned close. The way his eyes followed your hands like he was memorizing the movement.

He started talking more. Little things. Compliments buried under sarcasm.

"Your bedside manner's getting softer, doc."

"You look tired. Someone not sleeping?"

"Those are new glasses. Cute."

You rolled your eyes every time, but you didn't tell him to stop. You knew he wouldn’t anyways.

*****

Two months in.

The injuries started getting stranger, you realized.

Not the kind you get from random fights. They were too precise. Too controlled.

A cut here… A bruise there... Nothing life-threatening or deep enough to leave any permanent damage. 

But enough to bleed.

Enough to need you.

*****

Three months in.

A small scene you didn't think much of at the time.

You were at the nurse's station, charting. One of the younger nurses—Lisa, friendly, always smiling—leaned over your shoulder.

"Hey, doc. That guy who's always in here. The one with the sliced arm?"

You smirked at the nickname, it stuck with the staff after his first visit here. 

"What about him?" You glanced up.

Lisa lowered her voice. "He gives me the creeps."

That made you laugh. "He gives everyone the creeps."

"No, I mean..." She hesitated. "He asked about you last week. When you weren't here."

Your pen stopped moving.

"What did he ask?"

"Just... what time you get in. If you work weekends. If anyone walks you to your car." Lisa shivered. "He was smiling the whole time. Like it was a normal conversation."

You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing.

Lisa shrugged it off. "Anyway. Just thought you should know."

She walked away.

You stared at the chart in your hands for a long time.

*****

The next time he came in.

You watched him differently.

The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he knew where the antiseptic was before you reached for it. The way he'd already rolled up his sleeve before you asked.

"Something wrong, doc?" he asked, catching your stare.

"No."

"You're looking at me funny."

"I always look at you funny. You're always bleeding on my table."

He laughed. That low, warm sound that used to mean nothing and now meant something.

"You're deflecting."

"I'm working."

He let it go, his smile didn't fade.

And when you leaned in to clean a cut near his collarbone, he whispered:

"I like it when you worry about me."

Your hands paused.

"I'm a doctor. I worry about all my patients."

"No, you don't."

He said it so simply. So sure.

You didn't argue.

*****

Present.

You've finally finished cleaning him up. Stitched the deep tissue and bandaged him as well as you could.

You step back a bit to survey your work. Then let out a long sigh.

It hasn't even been a week, yet he’s already back so bloody.

"Alright. I think we're all done... unless there are some other injuries I missed."

He doesn't answer right away.

He's looking at you. Softly. Like you're the only light in a dark room.

His hand drifts up to the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.

"Doctor..." He feigns pain, voice dipping low. Less playful now. "I think I'm hurt here."

You frown. "Where? Let me see."

He points. You lean forward, squinting at his chest. Trying to find a wound you must have missed.

"There's nothing—"

"Every time you look at me," he says, "my chest gets tight."

Your hands freeze.

"Every time you touch me, my heart forgets how to beat right."

He's not looking at your hands anymore. He's looking at your eyes.

"You're the only doctor who can fix this."

You swallow. "That's not... that's not a real injury."

"No?"

"No."

He smiles slowly, sweetly. Dangerous.

"Then why does it hurt so much when you're not around?"

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Ugh, wait, it’s starting to hurt more!” He suddenly doubles down, hand hovering over his chest again, and face contorting dramatically in pain.

You believe him for a moment—that was your biggest mistake—and go lean closer to his chest, trying to find an invisible injury.

“What? Where exactly I can’t see anything—“ 

And that's when he moves.

He leans over your head, and you feel something soft land on the middle of your eyebrows.

A quick peck, right on your forehead. Over before you can process it.

You jerk back so fast you nearly fall off your stool. Your hand flies to your forehead like you've been burned. 

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again—trying to articulate a sentence. Nothing comes out except a strangled sputter.

He's already off the table, grinning like he just won a prize.

"Thank you for your hard work, doctor~"

You find your voice. "You—you can't just—"

He's backing toward the door. Still smiling. Still watching you with those lovesick eyes.

"Now don't go flirting with any nurses while I'm gone!"

He pauses at the door. Tilts his head.

His smile doesn't change. But his eyes do.

"I don't wanna come back more bloody next time~"

The door swings shut behind him.

You're left standing there. Hand on your forehead. Heart pounding.

He never said he was joking.

Your eyes drift to the empty doorway.

And for some reason, you think of Lisa.

The way she shivered when she talked about him.

The way she doesn't lean over your shoulder anymore.

The way she transferred to the morning shift last week without ever saying goodbye.

You never asked why.

you’d always been the one to speak first. approach first, question first. it had always been you.

you liked the way he listened. the way he absorbed your words instead of filling the air with them. there was such an odd comfort in his stillness, a gentleness you didn’t often find in this city.

yet, the truth was, solivan brugmansia was lonely. not the kind of lonely that comes with solitude, but the kind that painfully roots itself deep in your chest. a quiet, suffocating feeling that bursts during every waking minute. he became numb to the realization, yet even when it did hit, it subsided the blow. it didn't hurt much anymore, because he met you.

you gave him light. simple, thoughtless, basic attention. you sat beside him, even when he got awkward and attempted to deny you. you asked about his favorite books, genuinely interested in what he had to say. you beamed when he'd lent you a few worn copies of some of his favorite novels, and laughed at his dry comments about how the characters within the bunch reminded him of people who loved to pretend to be interesting. you found yourself slightly stunned at his mention of meeting hundreds of people like that.

you didn’t think much of it when he remembered every little thing you said. your usual coffee order, specific to the one you'd purchased alongside his own when you first approached him in the library. the song you hummed while studying, sitting awfully close to his trembling body. the full government names of each of your friends individually, the reminders of questionable things they've done to you in the past, the physical reaction he'd manage whenever you mentioned your friend crowe, specifically.

the first time sol asked to walk you home, you said yes before he could even finish spitting out the words. there was something about the way he spoke that made refusal feel impossible. like it was physically difficult.

he smiled faintly when you accepted, though you could’ve sworn there was relief flickering under his calm. as though he hadn’t genuinely expected you to agree.

the day after you woke up from accidentaly falling asleep with his company over, you sent him a quick apology text before getting up to get ready for class. you felt awful, not only from just waking from your heavy sleep, but because you completely dozed off while he was in your apartment. yet, he was still kind enough to carry and tuck you into your comfortable sheets.

sol wasn’t intrusive. not at first. he was just present. not subtle in the slightest with his attentiveness, but gentle in the way he molded himself into your everyday life. he'd walk you home without question, carrying your bag without asking, insisting there's no place he'd rather be. he'd text to make sure you’d eaten, and gods forbid you ever said no quicker than him darting to your apartment with a fresh home-cooked meal made with his expert culinary skills. everything was sweet, innocent. your relationship was growing by the day, and you never missed an opportunity to spend time with sol. it was obvious he felt the same.

sometimes you were asked if his constant presense was bothersome by your friends, which you always leaped to defend solivan, repeating that he could never be a bother.

when he softly smiled and quietly spoke to you, he always looked at you as if he was analyzing the shape of your face. the various expressions you make throughout the day, the mannerisms you'd act whenever you were feeling a specific way. it's when the two found yourselves in comfortable silence that he'd whip out his familiar sketchbook and start frantically moving his pencil around the pages.

you told him once, half-joking, “i'd love to see whatever you're sketching one of these days, sunny.”

he tilted his head, expression unreadable. “eventually, ill show you when i have something worth showing.”

you smile softly, turning your head and letting out a puff of laughter. sol's gaze stayed glued to you.

your openness was a mercy to him. you were so honest and blunt with however you were feeling, you were quick to praise, quick to forgive. when he forgot his jacket at your place, you returned it the next day, neatly folded and freshly washed with a big smile on your face.

when he said he liked your handwriting, you began leaving little notes for him. reminders, inside jokes, doodles in the corners of his papers.

he kept every sliver of paper, sliver of your affection. cherished it, traced the lines with his fingertips along the marked on several of his papers.

he’d organized them in a box in his bedroom, arranged by date, edges flattened, your inked handwriting and doodles preserved under lamination.

you thought it was sweet. he thought it was eternal.

solivan changed in small ways. at least, to you. his calm deepened into something else, something heavy. when you spoke to or about others, his gaze lingered much longer than normal. his bright eyes always flickered with something unexplainable.

once, the both of you were sitting at a café, telling him about a friend’s upcoming trip abroad. you mentioned you’d miss them, that you might even visit one day. solivan’s eye twitched.

“would you?” he quietly asked, sipping at his drink.

“mmm, maybe. just for a week or two. not anytime soon though.”

he stirred his tea, the spoon scraping against the bottom of his cup.

“you'd come back.”

you nodded with a smile. “course i would. why wouldn’t i?”

he shrugs, repeatedly stirring his drink with a blank expression.

you instinctively reached for his hand. he's warm, warmer than usual.

“hey. it was just a thought." you speak lowly, caressing a thumb over the back of his hand. "i'd come back, that's even if i do go. don't stress about it.”

he stared for a moment longer, then exhaled softly. “i know you would.”

he softly curved his lips into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes so easily. just a moment ago, the two of you were laughing and cracking jokes amongst each other. between your gasps for air at his blunt humor, the two of you were still deciding on what else to order, his treat. his demeanor changed so quickly, it nearly gave you whiplash.

he would never tell you how long he had ended up laying awake that night, imagining tens of ways to make sure you never wanted to leave in the first place. that you'd never even have the thought cross your mind again. everything is right here, everything you may need for the rest of your life. you're safe here, with him and his fierce gaze watching over you. why would you even consider leaving? to get away? to get away from him?

you made him a gift once, a small, clumsy bracelet made of thread and full of random charms. you had seen one like it in a market and thought he’d find it cute. it matched his alternative aesthetic, silver and green beads surrounding his wrist. when you handed it to him, you expected a laugh, a soft thank you.

instead, sol froze.

he turned the bracelet over in his hands, thumb brushing the uneven knots, the single bead you’d misthreaded near the clasp. his eyes softened in a way you've never seen before.

“you made this?” he questioned with a raise of his brow.

you nodded, a little shy. “haha, yeah. it's not much, but i thought it'd be cute-”

“i love it. a lot.” he clasps it in his hands, holding it close to hs chest. his eyes scan your face intensely.

you blinked, heart rate picking up slightly at his words. “what?”

he continued looking at you, and something in his expression was so raw, almost broken. “no one’s even considered doing something like this for me before.”

your heart clenched mid-beat as you slowly approach him with small steps. “sol, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to make it into such a big deal... but, i'm glad it means something to you.” you smile at him, carefully taking the bracelet out of his clentched hands.

rolling up his sleeve slightly, you ignore the rough, textured skin on his forearm as you place the bracelet in it's rightful place on his wrist.

"it's a piece of me given to you. i hope you wear it and think of me whenever you feel lonely." you smile, massaging his pulse with your warm hands. "i like it when you think about me when you need somebody."

suddenly, he reached forward, pulling you into a careful, trembling hug. his voice was quiet, muffled against your shoulder. “thank you.”

you give a giddy smile, touched by his sincerity, and let him hold you. you didn’t see the way his eyes closed, the way he sharply inhaled your scent. the way his grip tightened for half a second too long, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you beneath his hands.

that was the night he realized you weren’t just simply somebody he loved. you were something sacred. something that couldn’t, wouldn’t, must not be taken away.

there were days when he was almost normal. you'd go grocery shopping together, sit on the couch reading side by side, share quiet giggles. just enjoy each other's company whenever possible. he'd rest his head against your shoulder, you’d run your fingers through his hair, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

but sometimes, in the stillness, you’d catch him watching you, his expression distant, gaze unfocused.

“what're you thinking about?” you’d question while fiddling with his striped sleeve.

he'd blink, grin, and shake his head. “just you.”

“just me? sounds pretty lame.” you laugh, letting go of his arm.

he'd hum, leaning in closer than normal. “it's never "lame." nothing about you is boring.”

"that's interesting coming from such a mysterious man." you grin, suddenly raising your hand and adjusting his earring with a smile.

"it's alright, i like that. about you"

his cheeks flushed, and you thought it was sweet. that he was so sweet. you didn’t realize it was true. true that you were all he thought about.

he'd stopped thinking about anything else a long time ago.

one evening, you arrived at your favorite cafe the both of you agreed to meet at. you walked to the familiar building holding a new book you’d found just for him. an antique collection of poetry containing some of his favorite stand-alone pieces. of course, it was in a beautiful shade of green with black lettering, fitting his signature look even more.

he was sitting in his typical seat by the window when you walked through the noisy door of the cafe, back to the light. the room smelled faintly of fresh flowers and tea.

when you handed him the poetry, he didn’t move for a moment. just sat, eyes practically staring through the pages.

"a few of your faves are in there." you say, taking a small sip of his tangy tea. "plus it's green, thought it suited you perfectly. like it was made for you." you teased.

“you really shouldn’t have,” he murmured, cheeks flushing a slight red.

“i definitely had to. i mean, how could i not get it for you?” you gently tap him with your foot from under the table, encouraging him to look up at you before he stares a hole in the brand new addition in his growing collection.

his gaze flicked to you, eyes wide and bright. “you always give so freely.”

“that's noooot a bad thing.” you joke with a laugh.

“no.” he carefully opened the book, reverently. “it's just... every time you give me something new, it feels like i want to keep it forever.”

you smiled fondly at him. “that's... kind of the point, sunny.”

he peered up at you again, and the air between you seemed to shift, heavy and delicate at once.

“you don’t understand,” he said softly. “you could give me the smallest thing, and i'd never be able to let it go, pumpkin.”

you laughed. not at him, but the way he made you nervous. nervous in such a flattered way. “should i stop giving you spontanious gifts? hmm?"

he didn’t laugh with you. he only reached out, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, his touch feather-light.

“don't say that,” he murmured. “you'll make me miss you even more.”

ིྀ 𓎟ᛝ𓎟𓎟　†　𓎟𓎟ᛝ𓎟 ྀི

sol cried that night.

you didn’t know why, not really. you'd said something so simple, something kind. maybe it's because you told him you were glad to know him, or that you’d always be around, no matter the situation. you weren’t sure.

all you knew was that one moment he was smiling, and the next he was trembling, eyes wet, breath uneven.

you reached for him, and he caught your hand, pressing it against his chest. his heartbeat was rapid, frantic.

“solivan,” you whispered, frightened by how fragile he looked.

he shook his head, a quiet laugh breaking through his constant tears. “you really don’t understand how much it means when you say things like that, do you?”

you softly raise your hand to rest on his face, wiping his big tears away. “explain it to me. i'm here for you.”

“i can’t,” he said, voice shaking. “if i did, you might start to realize how deep this goes. and then you’d run. you'd run and never return.”

you didn’t move. not a muscle. “i wouldn’t. i would never.”

he softly smiled through the tears. a beautiful, terrible smile. “you say that because you’re kind. not because you know.”

he raises a hand to grip your own atop his face. he carefully removes it from his tear-stained cheek and grips it gently.

you held him then, and he let you. his hands gripped your shirt tightly, as though he was anchoring himself to you.

neither of you spoke for a long time.

in the morning, you woke on the couch to find him watching you, sunlight catching in his hair. he looked peaceful, almost nostalgic.

when you stirred, he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your forehead.

“good morning,” he spoke, voice husky.

“morning sunny,” you spoke softly, smiling at the green streaks sticking out of his head.

he smiled back. “stay a while longer.”

you hesitated. you had things to do, places to be, people to see. but you truly couldn’t say no to him, you never could.

so of course, you stayed.

and as you drifted back to sleep, you didn’t see the way he leaned closer, whispering against your hair,

Your childhood best friend doesn't like to remeber how was it like to grow up around a father who was like a live corpse with his alcohol addiction and severe depression, and a mother who never dreamed big and got pregnant at a young age; back when both of his parents thought it will just magically work out.

Playing with you after you returned from school (the same place he was afraid of going to) - made his entire day if not even a week.

But when it became obvious that it's time to separate to pursue higher education and other adult life milestones - James hoped you two will meet again. And he hoped it will be as soon as humanly possible.

So instead of going to his local college like his parents told him to, he decided to spend a year to make enough money so he could find you and get accepted to your college. There was no way in hell James would accept failure, so he went all way in just to achieve his goal.

"H-hi, [name]~ Wow, I didn't expect that w-we will meet again l-like that ha-ha~"

Little did he know, getting accepted to the same college as you - wouldn't be as hard as keeping your attention at him. After all - achieving something practical like saving up money and going to a specific college isn't as hard as forcing someone to like you.

"People are not toys..." - is what your best friend kept telling himself time and time again when he felt possessive over you. "I'm not the only person in the world. I shouldn't be so selfish and just let her choose someone she actually likes..."

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