POV Serena

Have you ever hated someone so much that watching them bleed feels like bleeding yourself?

The fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzz overhead, casting everything in a pallid glow. Nurses move around Caleb, checking vitals, cleaning wounds.

I stand against the wall with my arms wrapped around my middle, unable to stop staring at his blood-streaked face. The split in his bottom lip that keeps oozing red. The way he winces when they move his arm.

And still—God help me—still I notice the sharp line of his jaw. The broad shoulders tensing beneath the nurses’ hands.

He’s covered in blood and road rash, and my traitorous mind whispers that he’s the most beautiful thing in this fluorescent nightmare.

Because he’s fucking Caleb Thornton.

I agreed to come tonight because Lucas asked, and because some reckless part of me wanted to prove I could be spontaneous.

He pressed me against that chain-link fence, mouth inches from mine, and I should have wanted it. The antidote to years of feeling unwanted.

But when he leaned in, I turned my head and switched positions.

I told myself it was the crowd.

Then the race started, and my eyes found one rider without conscious thought. The angle of his shoulders. The aggressive grace of his turns. I knew it was Caleb before I could name why.

When his bike went down—metal screaming against asphalt, sparks flying like dying stars—the world narrowed to a single point of terror.

I was running before I realized my legs had moved.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

The nurse says he’ll live—nothing broken, just scrapes and a split lip—and relief nearly drops me to my knees.

Lucas mutters about leaving, about salvaging the night, but I’m already telling him I’ll take Caleb home alone. He stares at me, jaw working, then walks away without another word.

I watch him disappear through the automatic doors and feel nothing. The only thing occupying my mind is the boy bleeding in the room behind me.

What is wrong with me?

I should be upset about Lucas. I should be replaying that almost-kiss, mourning the normal relationship I just sabotaged.

Instead, my hands won’t stop shaking. My lungs still burn from running across that track. My heart still hasn’t found its proper rhythm.

Six years of cruelty—being called princess like a slur, having my grief weaponized, feeling worthless in his presence—and yet here I sit in this taxi. Watching street lights strobe across his damaged face, aching with a tenderness that has survived every wound he’s ever inflicted.

Our parents’ cars are missing from the driveway. Date night, of course. Hours before anyone returns.

Inside, I flip on the kitchen lights and notice the dark stain spreading across his back. Fresh blood seeping through ruined fabric.

“You’re bleeding again. Sit down.”

He moves toward the stairs instead and I watch him struggle with his jacket, pain evident in every movement, and my patience fractures.

“The wound is on your shoulder blade,” I snapped. “Unless you’ve developed the ability to dislocate your arms, you can’t reach it. Sit. Down.”

The kitchen chair scrapes against the tile as he finally surrenders. His fingers fumble with buttons, and the vulnerability in that small struggle undoes me.

“Let me,” I demand.

He goes rigid as I step behind him and ease the shirt off his shoulders.

His back is a masterpiece of destruction. Angry red scrapes trail along his ribs like claw marks. A deeper gash near his spine still weeping blood. Bruises already blooming purple and blue, turning his skin into a violence rainbow.

My hands shake as I clean the wounds. Every time the antiseptic touches raw flesh, his muscles tense, and I have to resist the insane urge to apologize. To press my lips to each injury and take the pain away.

You’re losing it. Completely losing it.

“Why do you race?” The question escapes sharper than intended. “You can’t even drive.”

“I can drive fine. I was distracted.”

“By what? The money?” I press gauze against the deepest wound, and he hisses through his teeth. “Catherine thinks you work at a café.”

His shoulders go rigid. “How do you know about that?”

“I know how to pay attention.”

Silence stretches between us and I finish bandaging the cut and move to stand in front of him.

He rises slowly, something shifting behind his eyes. “Speaking of attention, you looked cozy with Bennett tonight.”

His free hand slams against the plaster beside my head, and I’m caged, trapped between his body and the wall, and I should be terrified but all I feel is finally.

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