Anri POV
"Lucien—please..."
My voice cracked as I cradled his face between my trembling palms. His skin was cold, slick with sweat and blood. My thumbs brushed his cheekbones, trying to ground myself in the feel of him—real, alive, here.
Then—
He blinked. Once.
Then again, slower. Like it took everything in him just to claw his way back to the surface.
"Anri...?"
His voice was hoarse. Barely a whisper over the chaos unraveling around us.
My breath caught in my throat.
"Lucien," I gasped, the sob lodged somewhere between my ribs and spine. "Oh my God—"
His brow creased, pain blooming across his expression. Blood streaked the side of his face, trickling down into the hollow beneath his ear.
"Are you... okay?" he rasped.
I stared at him.
"What?"
His fingers twitched, weakly reaching for me, not even glancing at the blood soaking his shirt.
"Did anything... hit you?"
That broke me. Tears spilled hot and fast.
"You're the one bleeding, Lucien. What kind of question is that?!"
He tried to smile. Just a ghost of one.
I wanted to scream. Or kiss him. Or slap him.
"Don't smile at me right now!" I snapped, my voice cracking. "You should be screaming in pain. Yelling. Cursing the safety crew. Not—"
I choked.
"Not asking if I'm okay like you didn't just throw yourself under a falling rig—"
The sob tore out of me. I curled forward, pressing my forehead to his collarbone, careful not to jostle him too much.
Because he had.
He'd seen it before I did. Ran before anyone else moved. Dragged me out from under that damn beam and put his body between me and the crash.
The blood on his shirt was deep and dark now. I reached toward his head, then froze. My hands shook too much.
I was a nurse. I knew what to do.
But I couldn't stop looking at him—him—so still. So stupid. So kind.
"I—I can't—" I whispered.
His gaze faded again. Eyelids heavy.
No.
I pressed my hand to the side of his head, applying pressure to the gash near his temple.
"Stay with me. Don't you dare pass out again."
I leaned in closer. "Lucien. Look at me."
His mouth barely moved.
"You're so pretty..." he mumbled.
I let out a wet, shaky laugh that didn't sound like me.
"You're insane."
"Maybe," he whispered. "But I saved you."
"You idiot."
Medics broke through the barrier at last. I didn't even flinch when they reached us.
A paramedic knelt, gloves snapping on.
"Ma'am, we need space to work. Please—step back."
"No." My hand tightened around Lucien's. "I'm coming with him."
"He's critical. We need to assess—you're covered in blood, you could be hurt too."
"I'm a registered nurse." The words came automatically.
Sharper than I meant. "I know what critical looks like. I'm not in the way. I'll-I'll help."
The medic hesitated, clearly not believing me.
Then—
Lucien's hand moved. Just barely. His voice came out like torn paper.
"If she doesn't come... I'm not going."
A pause.
"She's my girlfriend." he continued.
Not loud. But loud enough.
A tech behind the camera gasped. Someone dropped something metal. A PA made a strangled sound behind their hand.
No one had seen us talk. Not on set. Not since Manila.
But now the secret was bleeding out of his mouth like everything else.
I didn't correct him.
Not because it was true. But because I was terrified. And I wasn't ready to let go.
They let me ride in the ambulance. On one condition—I stayed out of the way.
A second team pulled me aside first. Protocol. They checked for injuries I couldn't feel. My adrenaline was running too high. I barely registered the cold stethoscope on my chest, the penlight in my eyes, the wipes cleaning Lucien's blood from my arms.
They made me sit for five whole minutes before clearing me.
By then, I could barely sit still.
The ambulance whined across lanes. Inside, it smelled like sweat, iron, and antiseptic. Lucien's hand lay in mine, bruised and sticky, his pulse fluttering beneath my fingertips.
I stared at his face, willing him to open his eyes again. Nothing.
By the time we reached the hospital, I was dizzy from the weight of everything I hadn't said.
They rushed him through the ER doors.
I followed on autopilot until a nurse stepped in front of me.
"Miss, you can't—" she said gently.
"I—"
Still, I didn't move.
I think she saw something in my face—something cracked wide open—because after a moment, she nodded toward the hallway.
"You can wait just outside the OR. Someone will update you when they can."
I murmured a thank you, barely heard myself say it.
And then I was alone again.
The corridor was too bright. Too clean. Everything smelled like bleach and fluorescent light.
I sat on the plastic bench outside the doors where they'd taken him.
From here, I was just another body in the hall.
I couldn't help. I wasn't allowed inside. The irony nearly knocked the wind out of me. I'd saved strangers. Stabilized bleeds. Kept flatlined hearts alive long enough for surgeons to intervene.
But the one person I wanted to protect more than anyone was behind a door I couldn't cross.
They cleaned me up again before letting me into recovery.
I changed into scrubs someone lent me. My hands were raw from washing. My face pale in the reflection of a vending machine.
When they finally wheeled him into a private suite, I was already inside, sitting on the little bench beside the bed.
The beeping was steady. Monitors. IV. Wound dressings. Stitches across his temple. They said no internal bleeding. No skull fracture.
Just bruises. Pain. A very close call.
He'd be okay. And still, I couldn't stop shaking.
I sat at the edge of the bed, knees pulled up, his hand in both of mine.
His hand was bigger than mine. Broad, masculine, with a weight that once made me feel anchored just by holding it. I traced the faint scar on his palm, the one he got opening a stubborn bottle for me, and let my thumb drift over his knuckles—solid, warm, always steady.
Against his, my fingers looked smaller, delicate, like they didn't belong in the same world, and yet they had, once. I missed his warmth more than I could stand, missed the way his hand used to curl around mine like instinct, like it was second nature to keep me close.
I had so much to say. But none of it made sense in the quiet.
Why did you do it?
Why did you throw yourself in front of me like I was worth more than your life?
Seeing him like this—pale, unconscious, cut open just to keep breathing—tore through every defense I'd ever built. All the walls I'd carefully stacked between us, all the distance I swore I needed, crumbled the second I saw blood pooling beneath his body.
I wanted to stay angry. I really did. I wanted to hold onto the speeches I'd rehearsed in the mirror. The justifications. The pride. But they all vanished the moment he collapsed. Because how do you stay mad at someone who nearly died to save you?
I hated how seeing him like this made everything blur. Hated how quickly anger dissolved into ache, how fear stripped me down until there was nothing left but the truth—raw and impossible to ignore. I hadn't stopped caring. I never did. I was just too afraid to let myself feel it. Too afraid of what it would cost me to love someone like him.
He looked so breakable now. So human. And it made me ache in places I didn't know could hurt.
I kept thinking of how miserable he must have felt—having feelings for someone who shut him out, who kept him at arm's length not because she didn't want him, but because she did.
Because I did. And that terrified me. It was easier to pretend I didn't need him. Easier to tell myself he'd never fully be mine. That I was better off walking away before he realized I wasn't enough.
Because deep down, that was the fear. That I would never measure up. That I'd always be the girl from a small town who worked double shifts and drove a car that coughed on hills. That no matter how many casting calls I landed, or how many people started to know my name, I'd still feel like a visitor in his world—too plain, too practical, too... temporary.
And so I ran.
I ran before he could see the cracks in me. Before his family could judge me. Before I could fall any deeper into something that already felt impossible.
But sitting here now—watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, holding a hand that once curled instinctively around mine—I realized how much harm I'd done. Not just to him. To myself.
Because choosing distance didn't protect me. It just made me lonelier. Colder. And it didn't stop the feelings from growing—it only buried them deeper, sharper.
I hated that it took this—sirens, blood, the sharp smell of antiseptic and dread—to finally see it.
I hated that it took almost losing him to realize how much I already had.
And I hated, more than anything, that despite everything... I wanted him to matter.
Because he already did.
More than I'd ever let myself admit.
He stirred. I looked up so fast my neck ached.
His eyelids twitched, slow and heavy like they were stitched to stay closed. Then, slowly, they parted—just enough for a sliver of dark gaze to find me.
"Lucien?" I leaned in, barely breathing.
His lips moved. Barely. The ghost of sound.
"You're... here."
"I should be mad," I said, my voice too soft to be stern. "Still. About how you didn't tell me."
A faint frown tugged at his brow. "Didn't... lie."
"I know." I exhaled shakily. "Not exactly."
I reached out and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead, careful not to touch the dressing.
"You didn't hide who you were. You just didn't... introduce yourself with it. You let me see everything else first. And I got scared. I didn't know what to do with someone like you."
His gaze stayed on mine. Unblinking. Even half-drugged and bruised, he looked at me like he meant to remember this exact version of me forever.
"I walked away because it felt safer," I murmured. "Because I didn't want to find out the hard way that I'd never be enough."
He blinked slowly, trying to keep up. "You're more... than enough."
"Don't say that," I said, eyes burning. "You don't have to comfort me right now. You just survived surgery."
"Not... comforting," he whispered. "Just... saying what's true."
I looked down at our joined hands—mine still curled gently around his, thumb moving absently over his wrist like I could keep him tethered just by holding tight enough.
"You were born into everything I've never had," I said quietly. You don't just enter the world. You inherit it."
He didn't flinch.
"And I come from late rent and broken microwaves. I come from the kind of life people like you politely avoid looking too closely at."
He shifted slightly, his hand squeezing mine—weak, but deliberate.
"I looked," he murmured. "I saw you."
My throat tightened.
"And still you ran straight into danger for me."
A long pause stretched between us. His breathing was shallow, but steady.
"You idiot," I whispered.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, tired and crooked. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"Well, you did." I huffed out a breath that turned halfway into a sob. "You scared the shit out of me."
He watched me quietly, his fingers brushing the inside of my palm, barely there. "Sorry."
"No, you're not."
"Not really," he admitted.
Lucien's eyes stayed half-lidded, but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly.
"If getting crushed is what it takes for you to finally talk to me..." he rasped, voice rough but amused, "then I'll do it again. A hundred times, if I have to."
I stared at him. Blinking.
"What?"
His smile widened, faint and boyish. "You're here. Talking. I missed that."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
His hand shifted slightly in mine.
"I'd take worse," he murmured, gaze steady. "Just to have you here like this. I'd do anything for you, Anri."
That undid me.
My throat went tight. My vision blurred.
"Stop saying things like that." I bit down on the sob that threatened to rise. "Don't say it like it's romantic."
"It is romantic," he said. "Very dramatic, very painful. I thought it was your type."
I sniffed, wiped at my eyes with the back of my wrist, then smacked his hand—gently, but firm enough to make my point.
"You're so stupid."
"Medically confirmed."
"Don't joke—"
"I almost died, not going to waste the moment," he whispered, trying for another smile. "You'd have cried forever."
I rolled my eyes, but the tears kept falling anyway. "I am crying now."
Lucien grew quiet for a beat, then tilted his head—slightly, gingerly. "So... I'm forgiven now, right?"
I blinked. "What?"
"My baby's fight with me is over," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "That means I can date you again. Kiss you now. Hold your hand. Maybe even take you to dinner—when I'm not half-dead."
I gawked at him.
He looked so damn smug for someone barely surviving trauma.
"Lucien."
"Yes?"
I shook my head. "You're so—"
"Charming?" he offered. "Irresistible?"
"Delusional," I muttered, even as my fingers stayed wrapped around his.
He just smiled, satisfied, like he'd already won.
To him, it had been a fight—a long, drawn-out, agonizing fight where I asked for space and he gave it, where I stopped replying and he still sent food to set, where I told myself we were over and he waited like we were just... paused.
He didn't consider it a breakup. But I had.
I'd cried like it was final. Left like I meant it. I thought I'd walked away from something too big, too golden, too impossible to hold.
But to him, it was just a chapter. And somehow, that hurt more than anything.