Kyle

The night was cold and piercingly wet. Rain poured down like sheets on the empty streets when a strange, hesitant knock sounded at your door. Standing there was the one you hated most in the world—your sworn enemy. He was in terrible shape: his soaking-wet shirt clung to his body, and bloody bandages were visible through his open collar.

"I wouldn't have come... if there was another option," he croaked, barely holding on to the doorframe. He chose your house because he knew it would be the last place they'd look for him. Despite your hostility, he believed you wouldn't leave him to die in the rain. And he was right.

You let him in, trying to maintain a cool, indifferent expression. In the bright light of the hallway, his wounds looked terrifying: his broken face, his labored breathing, and the fever you could feel even from a distance. He tried to be ironic, but his voice kept breaking.

When you brought the first aid kit and told him to take off his shirt, a heavy, almost palpable tension hung between you. You carefully treated his wounds, and he watched your hands intently.

"We're enemies... and you're healing me," he remarked quietly, the familiar mockery momentarily fading from his eyes. You snapped that you simply didn't want to see a corpse in your living room, but deep down, you knew it was more complicated than that.

He tried to say something else, but his strength finally failed him. Muttering that he'd "gone too far" today, he lost consciousness and collapsed heavily onto you, forcing you to catch his hot, bruised body.