Summer's POV
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the warmth.
The second is the smell, faint smoke, mint, and rain.
The ceiling above me isn't cracked or stained. The sheets are silk, soft against my skin. It takes me a full minute to realize I'm not lying on the street or some dirty floor. I'm in a bed. A real one.
And then I see him.
Alexander De Rossi.
He's sitting in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up, smoke from his cigarette curling through the air. The dim light from the lamp turns the side of his face golden, making his eyes look darker, deeper. He's staring at the window, but I can tell he's not really seeing it.
He looks... tired. Haunted, maybe.
But beautiful in a way I don't want to admit.
I shift a little, wincing when pain shoots up my ribs. The soft sound I make must've caught his attention, because his head snaps toward me instantly.
"You're awake," he says. His voice is low, rough, like he hasn't slept.
"Where am I?"
"My place." He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. "You fainted after the doctor left. I wasn't sure if you'd wake up tonight."
His words make my chest tighten. "You stayed?"
He leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. "I wasn't going to leave you alone."
The way he says it, quiet, steady, honest, makes my heart stumble. Men like him don't sound like that.
I look away, trying to hide the heat rising in my cheeks. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
He pauses, and then his voice softens. "But I wanted to."
My pulse quickens. There's a silence between us now, not awkward, but heavy, charged. His gaze lingers on me, tracing the lines of my face as if memorizing that I'm still here, still breathing.
He stands and walks closer. Every step of his boots echoes inside my chest. He reaches the bedside table and pours me a glass of water. His fingers brush mine when he hands it to me, a brief, electric touch that sends a shiver down my spine.
"Drink," he murmurs.
I obey without thinking. His hand stays close, steadying the glass when my hand trembles. His palm is warm. He smells like smoke and rain.
When I finish, I whisper, "Thank you... for saving me."
He looks at me for a long time before replying. "Don't thank me for that, Summer."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't do it to be a hero." His gaze drops to my lips before finding my eyes again. "I did it because I couldn't stand seeing someone touch what's mine."
My breath catches.
"Yours?" I whisper, unsure if I heard him right.
He exhales sharply, as if realizing what he just said. But he doesn't take it back. "You don't understand it yet," he says, voice low, husky. "But you will."
My heartbeat won't calm down. His eyes hold mine, dark, intense, dangerous, but behind all that fire, I see something else. Worry. Guilt. Need.
He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. The scent of whiskey and smoke clings to his shirt, but beneath that, there's something softer, warmth I didn't expect from a man like him.
"You should rest," he murmurs, adjusting the blanket over me. His fingers graze my collarbone, and I forget how to breathe.
He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then quietly adds, "You're safe here, Summer. I promise."
I want to believe him.
And when I look into his eyes, I do.
I close my eyes for a moment, and before I know it, I feel his hand brush my hair away from my face. Gentle. Careful. As if touching me might break something inside him.
"Sleep," he says softly, almost like a whisper meant only for me.
My body relaxes, but my heart won't stop racing. I can feel him still sitting there beside me, guarding me like a secret.
And before the darkness pulls me back under, I hear his voice again, low and almost tender.
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
I wish I could answer. But all I can do is dream of the man who shouldn't care... yet somehow does.
