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Just a regular day in your regular life. Just another stretch of hours to drift through on autopilot. Just some groceries before you can finally crawl into bed again and pretend that counts as peace.
You’re somewhere between the pasta aisle and your own spiraling mind when it happens.
Your cart sits half-heartedly parked beside you, but you aren’t actually looking at any of the labels. Your eyes skim over them while your thoughts roar—too loud, too heavy, drowning out whatever you came here for. As always lately.
Your chest feels tight, and you’re tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix anymore. Not that you haven’t tried.
You reach for a jar of pasta sauce on the top shelf—bad idea, you should’ve known. It wobbles precariously, tips forward, and never hits the ground.
There’s no shattering sound because someone catches it. Someone close, too close. Warmth pressed against your back, far too suddenly for your frayed nerves Too fucking close. Danger, your mind screams, instinct firing before thought.
Your hand flies up in a sharp movement. A flat, defensive strike—
And the next thing you hear is a groan. “Holy shit—”
The person stumbles back.
You spin around, heart in your throat and freeze.
A lean, tall man stands there in dark jeans and a black button-down, one hand covering his nose where blood is already trickling down. He looks more startled than hurt.
“Oh my God— I am so sorry— I—” you stammer, mortified.
But he only dips a finger into the thin line of blood painting his very unfairly beautiful face. Up close, you notice the slight curl in his dark brown hair—just unruly enough to look touch-soft, but not neglected. And at the edge of his collar, a neck tattoo peeks out, half-hidden ink you can’t quite make out but can’t stop looking at either.
“Well,” he says with a small, amused wince, “that was a solid hook. If you ask me. I would know, I used to box for a living.”
You blink at him. Then a disbelieving laugh slips out despite everything.
“Did you just compliment me for hitting you?”
His mouth quirks into a smile—disarming, warm, a little sheepish—and your stomach does something incredibly stupid at that.
Trying to busy yourself, you rummage through your bag for a tissue and step closer to hand it to him. He accepts it with a gentle nod, his fingers brushing yours just a second too long. Your heart skips a beat like it’s trying to embarrass you.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, pressing the tissue to his nose.
“So… do we need to go to the hospital, or…?”
He shakes his head immediately. “God, no. I’m fine. Really. Nothing I’m not used to. Maybe some ice would be nice, though…”
You scan the aisle and spot a bag of frozen peas and promptly snatch it from the freezer.
“Not glamorous, but it’ll do,” you say, returning. “Let me just—pay for this, okay?”
“You don’t have to,” he objects.
“Please,” you say, offering a small, genuine smile. “That’s the least I can do. I insist.”
He relents, soft. “Okay. I—I’ll wait outside then,” he says, gesturing toward the sliding doors.
You nod and hurry to checkout.
***
When you step outside, the sky has already gone dusky, the streetlights flickering to life. He’s sitting on the low concrete ledge by the sidewalk, elbows on his knees, the tissue still pressed to his nose, the cotton tinted in red by now, but not enough to be worrisome.
You hesitate—just for a heartbeat—before walking over.
“Hey,” you say softly and hand him the back of peas. He looks up at that. And his smile is small, crooked, but effortless warm. Even welcoming, giving the fact you made his nose bleed.
“Hey. No more punches, right?” he teases gently.
You groan, covering your face. “Please don’t. I'll never be able to show my face in this supermarket again.”
He laughs—a low, warm sound that hits you somewhere in the ribs.
“Honestly? I’m impressed,” he says. “Most people freeze. You reacted fast. Good instincts.”
You sit down beside him, leaving a respectful gap between your bodies.
“I’m really sorry,” you say again, quieter now. “You startled me. I’ve just… been on edge. A lot.”
He nods—not prying, not pushing, just understanding. “It happens,” he murmurs. “People carry more than anyone can see from the outside. I shouldn’t have moved in so quick. I just didn’t want that jar to break on you.”
Your chest tightens at the unexpected gentleness in him, it almost hurts in some places you thought had long gotten hollow.
After a beat, you clear your throat and ask, “So… boxing? Really?”
He chuckles, adjusting the peas. “Years ago. Not professionally, just enough to know what my face feels like when it gets punched.”
You smile without meaning to. He glances at you then, really looks at you, and his expression softens. Something quiet flickers behind his eyes, something like recognition or maybe restraint. You don’t know why it makes your breath catch.
“Well,” you say, needing to break the tension before it swallows you whole, “the least I can do is buy you a coffee. Or tea. Or whatever your… concussion drink of choice is.”
He hesitates.
It’s subtle—barely there—but you see it. A tiny pause. As if he was weighing options in his head, like a silent battle. Then he exhales, soft and defeated in a way you don’t understand yet.
“Coffee sounds… nice,” he says gently.
You smile, relieved. “Good. There’s a place across the street, actually. Coffee doesn’t suck there.”
He stands with you, still holding the bag of peas to his nose, and you swear the night air shifts around you.
Like an uninvited pull, a thread tying itself between two strangers without permission.
The soft, dangerous beginning of the thing that will ruin you both.