A shallow scream clawed at Amelia’s throat, but she slapped a hand over her mouth before it could escape. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest as her wide eyes remained locked on the figure slumped beside the dumpster.

The man groaned softly, shifting slightly enough for her to see the slick sheen of blood on his shirt under the flickering alley light.

“P-please…” he whispered, his voice low, hoarse, like dragging sandpaper across gravel.

Amelia stumbled back a step, instinct warring with fear. “Oh my God, hold on. I-I’m going to call someone! Or get a cab—I’ll get help, just stay there—!”

“No.” The word was sharp, immediate, and strangely strong for someone who looked like he was hanging on by a thread.

She froze.

The man dragged in a shaky breath. “Don’t… call anyone.”

That stopped her cold.

His voice was desperate. Not scared of dying but scared of being found.

Amelia’s thoughts spun wildly. “Who was he hiding from? What kind of man refused a hospital when he was clearly hurt? What if the people who did this were still nearby? Watching?”

A sudden wave of dread passed through her, but underneath it, something stronger flared and it was compassion. Fear was loud, but her conscience screamed louder.

She exhaled shakily. “Okay,” she said, voice trembling. “Okay… I won’t call anyone.”

She crouched down beside him. “I’m going to help you up, alright?”

He nodded, barely.

When she slipped an arm around his back and pulled his arm over her shoulder, he let out a strangled groan. Every movement seemed to jar some invisible pain, and Amelia flinched with each sound he made.

“I’m worried,” she said, her breath shallow. “You might have broken something. You’re really hurt.”

“I’ll live,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

She looked at him, really looked, as the light hit his face more fully this time. His jawline was sharp, shadowed by a few days’ worth of stubble. Blood streaked across his temple, but beneath it, his features were striking symmetrical and aristocratic, the kind of face you might see on a movie poster or in a business magazine.

“Who would want to hurt someone like this?” she thought. “Why?”

No answers came—only more questions.

She led him toward the back entrance of the bakery, every step a quiet struggle.

Inside, the warmth of the kitchen met them like a soft embrace, a sharp contrast to the cold, sharp world outside. The lights buzzed faintly overhead. Amelia pulled a wooden chair out from under the prep table and helped him into it.

“Sit. I’ll get the first aid kit. Don’t move,” she said, a little firmer than she meant to.

He chuckled faintly, breath hitching. “Wasn’t planning to.”

She dropped the leftover pastry bags on the counter and ducked behind it, rummaging quickly beneath the register. Flour-dusted metal shelves clinked as she shifted things aside.

The man sat still, gaze drifting slowly around the bakery’s interior. The creaky fan. The scratched countertop. The faded pink paint peeling slightly at the corners. It was a quaint place—but in a state of neglect.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is this really her store?” he wondered. “She looks young. Too soft for this kind of struggle.”

He hadn’t expected to wake up in a rundown bakery with a woman who looked like she belonged in a French patisserie, not some forgotten backstreet.

Amelia returned with the box in hand and dropped to her knees beside him.

“Okay, this might sting,” she warned softly, popping open the lid.

“I’ll live,” he repeated, his voice dry with humor.

“You said that already.”

“Then I must mean it.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh. “Alright, smartass. I’m going to need you to unbutton your shirt.”

He blinked, then raised a brow. “Forward, aren’t we?”

Her cheeks flushed instantly. “I—! That’s not—! I just—I need to treat you, and you’re bleeding, and—”

He lifted one hand slowly. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

With some effort, he began undoing the bloodied buttons.

Amelia helped gently, trying not to flinch as the fabric peeled away from dried blood. When the shirt fell open, she paused, forgetting how to breathe for a moment.

Beneath the crimson streaks and bruises was a lean, muscular chest. Not bulky, but sculpted—like someone forged more by discipline than vanity. Her fingers hovered just above the wound.

He caught her staring.

“I know I look like a Greek god, but staring won’t heal me.”

Her head snapped up. “You’re very full of yourself for someone bleeding in a bakery.”

He smirked, but it faded when the alcohol-drenched gauze touched his shoulder.

He grunted, hand clamping down hard on the edge of the prep table.

“Sorry!” she gasped. “Just—just a few more seconds. I promise.”

The main wound was a clean slash across his chest, shallow but angry red. There was a stab wound on his shoulder not deep, but nasty and faint bruising along his ribs. His knuckles were raw, like he’d been punching something or someone before this.

As she cleaned the wounds with care, his hands stayed white-knuckled on the chair. He didn’t scream, but his jaw was tight, his breaths sharp.

Amelia worked silently, focused.

When she finally applied the bandage and wrapped it neatly around his torso, she leaned back, wiping her forehead with her wrist.

“You’re really lucky,” she said, softly. “If the stab had been just an inch lower…”

“Then you’d be dealing with a corpse in your kitchen.”

“Please don’t say that. I already have enough problems without adding a dead body to the mix.”

He looked at her more closely then, really looked. “You own this place?”

She nodded, sitting back on her heels. “Yeah. It’s mine.”

He glanced around again. “Why?”

She blinked. “Why what?”

“Why this place? Why now? It looks like it’s barely staying open.”

His words weren’t cruel—just…observant.

Still, they stung.

Amelia hesitated. “It was my mom’s dream. We started it together. She passed away two years ago. I kept it going because… it’s the only thing I have left of her.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, slow. Respectful.

“You treated me like a professional,” he said after a pause. “You ever train for this?”

Amelia smiled faintly. “Not formally. I grew up learning first aid from my mom. She used to be a nurse at a clinic. I picked things up.”

He opened his mouth to speak again but at that moment, a deep growl echoed through the kitchen.

Both of them froze.

Amelia blinked.

He went still.

Another rumble.

It came from him.

His stomach.

Silence stretched between them.

“Was that…?”