Lanterns cast the path in a warm, amber glow, cutting through the bruised purples and ocean blues of dusk.
Though, she can't quite relish the beauty of the hushed road,
trodden by barely anyone but her, as her entire body aches with weariness from the day's labour.
And the cotton bag tugs painfully at her wrist, heavy with groceries she picked up from the convenience store, deepening her longing for the velvet cocoon of her bed, where she can simply fall asleep.
Her university is taking an awful toll on her.
Between regular classes, projects, and assignments, she's already nearing a breaking point, while caring for her home and herself only adds to the pressure.
Today, she aches most for her aunt, for the quieter, more peaceful life she had before moving to Erriador, even if it came with far less freedom.
Well, this is the fruit she reaps after once being so desperate to leave home and move to Erriador.
She expected some disappointment, but the fragile human heart, beneath the unfolding of unknown events, is susceptible to spiralling emotions, that sometimes, even amid the gratitude for living in the very answer to one's prayers, it cannot
help but yearn for something even better, easier.
She pushes the narrow iron gates open, feeling so... so alone and hollow, even though she knows her Heavenly Father is with her. Always with her.
Her steps slow at the familiar silhouette before the door just a few feet away from her own,
the one she so often longed to open this past week that had been the most cruel to her than all.
A little panic spikes her heartbeat as the door opens into the darkness beyond, and the name slips from her lips before she can think better of it. "Rhett!"
Her blood pounds in time with her hurried steps as relief, anxiety, and anticipation surge through her all at once at the sight of his frozen frame.
She falls into step behind him, his face still turned away from her, shadowed and unreadable. Neva presses her lips together, struck by the realisation that words refuse to align with her feelings.
The rush of adrenaline from finally seeing him after a whole merciless week has carried her here.
And now, with him only an arm's length away, she has no idea what she is supposed to do.
She collides with the whirlwind of her own bewildered, overwhelming thoughts, drowning in the space between them that hangs in stifling silence.
Rhett finally glances at her. "What is it?"
"I... I..." Neva begins, her throat raw, the words coming out painfully coarse. "I wanted to... to apologise," she says quietly. "For that evening."
He nods slowly. "Anything else?"
She shakes her head, her fingers digging into the grip of her bag.
"Then... if you'll excuse me." His hand slides toward the door handle, the other resting over his stomach.
The burden of her uncertainty toward him should have lifted with her apology, yet she feels no lighter. Instead, she sinks deeper into a cold hollowness.
When she lifts her gaze to meet his, she almost shrinks beneath the weight of his reserved stare.
It is a surface she has peeled away, revealing a side of him that feels painfully unfamiliar.
He remains still, as though measuring whether another word will fall from her lips.
No reason stirs her tongue, so she turns on her heels, quietly leaving the moment behind.
Midway to the apartment nextdoor, her steps falter.
She turns, and there he stands, motionless, his eyes fixed on her like a silent accusation.
Something close to a soothed look settles over his face as she drops the grocery bag and hurries toward him. The metallic tang reaches her through the haze clouding her senses, sharp and unmistakable.
Her breath shakes as her fingertips meet his skin, crimson-glazed hand clamped over his bleeding abdomen.
"Y... you're hurt," she whispers.
Without another thought, she catches his wrist and draws him toward her apartment, then snatches up the abandoned grocery bag.
As the door closes behind them, shutting out the autumn chill, she directs him to the couch.
As quickly as she disappears into her bedroom, she returns with a first-aid box in hand.
"Can I see the wound?"
She cracks open the box, her hands moving with urgency as she pulls out a roll of thick gauze.
He doesn't budge, and she hesitates, confusion threading through her.
Maybe he's reluctant after what happened the last time he allowed her to help him.
But before she can repeat herself, he grips the fabric in one hand and lifts it, baring the wound.
She kneels before him, wincing as she leans closer to inspect the wound. Close enough to see the raw, angry edges of what almost looks like a knife-gash. It isn't too deep or too wide, yet blood still trails down his skin, over the firm, sun-tanned hardness of him.
"It likely won't need stitches. But you should still get it checked by a doctor." She gently presses the
gauze with both hands. "Hold it for me, please."
He obeys, his fingers brushing hers before replacing her touch with his own,
steadying the gauze where she once held it.
She heads toward the kitchen and returns with a bowl and a bottle of clean water.
Wetting a fresh piece of gauze, she settles beside him.
When he turns to face her, she gently pries his fingers away from the blood-soaked pad he's been holding to his skin, the gauze now a deep, saturated crimson.
Her stomach turns queasy as the metallic scent bites into her senses.
But she forces herself steady, her fingers trembling slightly as she dabs the wet gauze in gentle strokes to clean the wound.
She reaches for the antibiotic ointment, rolling the cap open.
"This might sting a little." She lifts her gaze to his.
He nods, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face.
With light, careful strokes of her fingertips, she spreads the ointment over the cleaned gash.
After she's done,
she presses a fresh pad over the wound and winds a bandage around his torso, snug but gentle.
Only when the ends are secured does she breathe in relief and snaps the first-aid box shut.
As he pulls his black hoodie back down, she finds herself in a muddle.
Waves of unwelcome thoughts crash over her, as sudden as the ones that hit the beat she rushed to him in her panic.
But why would she worry so fiercely about someone she barely knows?
She would have reacted the same if it had been anyone else. Anyone. But the hollow thrum inside chest betrays her, insisting otherwise.
"Thank you." Rhett's voice is quiet, guarded.
"It's alright." Silence settles between them again, teetering somewhere
between warmth and an unsure awkwardness.
She lowers her eyes, because he makes no move,
neither to break the tether of his stare nor the silence stringing tightly between them.
For a heartbeat, she prays the goofy, teasing version of him would manifest again, if only to save her from drowning in these unbidden, rising feelings.
Then again, she wonders helplessly which side of him binds him to his true self.
This silent, gentle, yet guarded presence before her?
Or the one from earlier,
the one who drives her heart into a reckless rhythm through foolish shyness, fleeting annoyance, or that strange, inexplicable giddiness?
Surely, she had been prejudiced against him before.
For beneath every outward appearance lies a soul, and the way it lives out its beliefs,
so often hidden from a stranger, is what truly counts.
Perhaps it is all him, too.
Perhaps he is merely trying to find the image of
who he is destined to be, sometimes failing to reflect it, for the mist so often gathers in the space between what is now and what is yet to come.
So it is with the image of a stranger, whose shades remain difficult to discern from afar; only when one draws near can they begin to see through the fog.
"Do you want some painkillers?" she asks, finally breaking the silence.
"I'm fine," he murmurs.
She only nods, gathering the first-aid box before turning toward her bedroom.
"Wait," he interrupts, halting her mid-step.
Her gaze falls to his fingers curled around her wrist before lifting to meet his.
His Adam's apple shifts as he swallows, and in that still little while, the
longing in his gaze becomes impossible to miss.
"I thought you hated me." The faint tremor in his voice betrays the fear and hope warring beneath it.
A soft chuckle slips from her,
and she can't help relishing the small frown forming between his brows, so innocently confused that it tugs at something warm inside her.
"I never did."
His shoulders slacken, the taut lines of his form easing into something gentler.
She watches him, secretly amused.
Then he looks up, his eyes warm with a familiar glow she has seen before... and a smile slowly tugs at his lips.
"I'm sorry," Neva says softly. "I shouldn't have acted so harshly."
Regret gnaws at her heart.
But, honestly, she wouldn't want to take back her words, only amend them a bit, wishing she had been gentler with him instead of being so harsh.
Rhett never crossed a line with her; he could even have been genuine with his feelings, but he was only a little foolish in the way he tried to interact. And she... God help her, she is still learning how to grow accustomed to people who aren't her aunt and uncle.
"You should be." Rhett startles her with the bluntness of it. "I could neither sleep nor eat properly after you hurt me so badly."
Neva fights the urge to roll her eyes. Now he's bluffing, obviously. It can't have been that bad.
"Anyway… how did you get hurt?" She tries to shift her focus away from that evening.
Away from the memory that still sends a pang through her chest, the memory of him
leaving in silence, without the jar of sugar he'd come for, or the tablets she'd offered him.
"Just a fight with some street gang that I made the mistake of underestimating." He brushes off the severity the way only he could. "Don't worry. I won."
She sighs, asking nothing more.
Now that everything has calmed, now that the tension between them has finally eased, the exhaustion of the day winds itself around her joints.
She could wash up, slip under her beloved covers, and fall asleep in an instant, hunger long forgotten.
But he doesn't budge from his seat. And it would feel indecent and careless, to urge him out of her home.
Not after he's just sat here bleeding. Not after he has been so unexpectedly vulnerable with her.
"Would you like something to drink?" Neva asks instead.
Rhett only shakes his head. "Angel?"
A faint hum escapes her at the pet name, an involuntary, a breezy sound.
"I'm sorry, too," he says gently. "I've been thinking about how I came forward to you. But I've never felt anything like this before, and I don't really know what to do." He hesitates.
"Is it alright to ask if I still stand a chance with you?"
He can be such a chameleon, changing moods as easily as colours, yet such a naive heart-stealer.
"I'm not sure I follow." She is already stepping toward her bedroom, if only to hide the tremor he causes.
"I want to know you," he declares, his voice hurried. "To spend all my hours with you,
to love you as you should be loved, with all of me."
Neva stops at the threshold, her hand resting against the doorjamb.
Her gaze falls on him, and the sight stills her completely.
Rhett sits rigid, every line of his body drawn tight, one hand gripping the armrest of the sofa.
"I'm in agony every time I can't see you." His voice is a feather skimming the surface of the stormy ocean waves in her heart. "But if my absence
bothered you even for a little bit, can I dare hope that you may allow me to stay by your side?"
A small smile brushes against her lips. "Only if you'll try to win me over," she murmurs, before slipping inside her room with a soft sweep of floral air, leaving him grinning after her like a lovestruck fool.