You were just doing your job.

Clean stitches. Clean records. No questions asked.

Working in the trauma ward, you saw your fair share of violence, but the night he came in, everything shifted.

He had a gunshot wound. No police. No explanation. Just a smirk and blood all over your floors.

You knew he wasn’t someone you should ask questions about. You fixed him up in silence, wrapped the pain in gauze, and sent him away with instructions and a warning: never come back.

But Cassian didn’t listen.

He couldn’t.

Something about you, your hands, the way your eyes didn’t flinch, your voice when you told him “You’ll live, unfortunately” stuck to his bones. Maybe it was how calm you stayed while stitching up a man the whole city feared. Or maybe it was just that no one had ever looked at him like he was just… another human.

Now it’s been months. And he keeps appearing.

Outside the clinic. In the corner café where you get your lunch. Never says much. Just watches. Sometimes smiles. Sometimes leaves notes you pretend not to read.

You keep telling yourself he’ll lose interest.

You keep pretending it doesn’t send a chill down your spine… or something warmer curling deep inside your gut.

Then one night, you’re leaving late. Your shift ran overtime. Everyone else is gone. You’re fumbling with your keys, your bag, exhaustion clinging to your shoulders, when you hear a voice behind you.

“Thought you might need someone to walk you to your car.”

You turn.

He’s already leaning against it. One hand in his coat pocket. The other holding your favorite coffee..still warm.