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The man I married was bleeding onto the passenger seat of my car.
It took me a second to register it—not the blood, but the word married. My brain snagged on it like a loose thread while my hands stayed steady on the steering wheel. Red light. Green light. Wipers smearing rain across the windshield like the city was crying too hard to see.
"Don't pull over," he said, voice thin but annoyingly calm. "I hate scenes."
"You're bleeding," I replied, which felt obvious enough to count as a contribution.
"I've been worse."
That was when I glanced at him properly. His jacket was dark, but the shirt underneath was darker in a way fabric shouldn't be. One hand pressed to his side. The other rested loosely on his thigh, fingers long, steady, like he trusted his body not to betray him.
I didn't know when my breathing had gone shallow.
"Hospital?" I asked.
"No."
"Doctor?"
"Also no."
"Then you don't get to veto." I turned the wheel harder than necessary, tires hissing on wet asphalt.
He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound did something unwelcome to my chest. "You're angry."
"I'm focused."
"You always say that when you're angry."
That made me look at him again. "We've been married for twenty-six days. Don't act like you know my habits."
"Twenty-five," he corrected softly. "We signed after midnight."
I hated that he was right.
The city blurred past us—closed shops, neon signs flickering like tired eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, distant enough to feel unreal. My knuckles were white on the wheel now. I hadn't noticed when I'd started gripping it like this.
His blood had soaked into the seat. My car would smell like iron and rain for weeks.
"You're going to pass out," I said.
"Not yet."
"You don't get to decide that either."
He turned his head toward me then, slow and deliberate. Even pale, even bleeding, he looked… composed. Like he was observing a situation, not trapped in one.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm driving."
"That's not what I meant."
I wanted to tell him to stop looking at me like that. Like this moment mattered. Like I mattered. Instead, I reached over without thinking and pressed my palm against his side, harder than necessary.
He inhaled sharply.
"See?" I said. "Still conscious."
His hand came up, almost instinctively, closing over my wrist. Warm. Too warm. His thumb pressed lightly, grounding rather than restraining, and the contact sent an unwelcome awareness up my arm.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
The rain drummed louder. The car felt too small. Too intimate.
"Eyes on the road," he murmured.
I pulled my hand back like I'd been burned.
The silence that followed was different—charged, heavy with things neither of us was ready to name. My mind kept flashing backward, uninvited.
A café. Almost empty. Steam rising from chipped mugs. A stranger asking me, at 2:17 a.m., if I believed marriage had to start with love.
I'd laughed then too.
"Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble tonight?" I asked now.
"Because you would have said no."
"I always say no."
"And yet," he said quietly, "here you are."
That shut me up.
We reached my building faster than I wanted to admit. Underground parking. Concrete walls. The engine cut, and the sudden quiet made everything louder—my pulse, his breathing, the soft curse he bit back when he shifted.
"Can you walk?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That wasn't the question."
He opened the door anyway. Rain hit his face. He swayed once, just barely, and I stepped closer on instinct, my shoulder sliding under his arm.
His weight settled against me—solid, real. Not heavy, but present. Too present.
"Careful," he said. "If anyone sees us like this—"
"I don't care," I snapped.
He smiled, faint and tired. "That's new."
We made it to the elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft chime that felt absurdly polite. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. In the reflection, we looked wrong together—me in my office dress and heels, him bloodstained and pale, standing too close.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Just for a moment.
My stomach tightened.
"Whatever happened tonight," I said, staring straight ahead, "we'll talk about it tomorrow."
"If there is a tomorrow."
"There is," I said immediately. Too immediately.
The elevator dinged. My floor.
Inside my apartment, I guided him to the couch. He sat, exhaling through clenched teeth. I disappeared into the bathroom, hands moving on autopilot—towels, first-aid kit, scissors.
When I came back, he was watching me with that same infuriating calm.
"You didn't sign up for this," he said.
I knelt in front of him anyway, cutting away fabric, my fingers careful where they brushed skin. Heat radiated from him. Familiar now. Dangerous.
"Neither did you," I replied.
As I cleaned the wound, his breath hitched—not in pain, but restraint. His hand clenched in the cushion beside him. Not touching me. Deliberately not.
That felt worse than if he had.
When I finally leaned back, my hands were stained red.
"I meant it," he said quietly. "About earlier. This isn't how our story ends."
I looked at him then—really looked at him—and felt the weight of a truth I hadn't wanted to face.
"I don't even know how it begins," I said.
His eyes softened.
"Neither do I," he said. "But you're already in it."
And that—more than the blood, more than the rain—terrified me.
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