KINA:
I closed the door behind me and just… stood there.
For a second, maybe two.
Blinking at the wood like it might crack open again and spit him back out at me.
Jesus Christ.
There was a man, a bleeding, half-dead, potentially murderous and extremely rude man, lying on my couch right now. In my apartment. Where I slept and kept my underwear and my sad, expired yogurts.
What the hell was I thinking?
Oh, right. I wasn't. Not when I saw him last night, slumped by the dumpster like a broken doll with blood leaking down his head. Not when he begged. Not when I wrapped my arms around him and dragged him home like some stray.
I should've run. I meant to run. But my stupid conscience kicked in like it always did, tripping me up with that shrill little voice going, "What if he dies? What if you just walk away and he dies, Kina?"
And now he was on my couch. With that smug, borderline criminal attitude and a gaping wound I had no idea how to treat.
Perfect. Absolutely thriving. I'm a shining example of how to make responsible adult decisions.
"Ah, Kina," came a voice from behind me.
I jumped so hard I nearly yelped.
Mrs. Kim. My landlady. God bless her early-morning rounds and her nosy instinct.
She squinted at me through her thick glasses, hands folded over her little apron like she was about to scold me for stealing cable.
"That young man you brought home last night," she said slowly. "He seemed… drunk. Very drunk."
Oh no. The lie. The stupid lie I blurted out to keep her from calling the cops.
I put on the fakest smile I could muster, stomach doing a slow, sad flop. "Y-Yeah, um, he… he was really out of it. Still asleep, actually. But he'll leave once he wakes up. Promise."
She didn't look convinced. Her eyes narrowed in that way only Korean aunties can manage, as if she was peeling back my skin with her gaze.
"Kina," she sighed like she already regretted every decision I've ever made. "If you want to date, pick someone responsible. Not a freeloader who sleeps past eight."
I opened my mouth to correct her. Closed it again.
Not worth it. My brain didn't have the RAM to explain whatever the hell this is. So I just smiled tightly, nodded like a good girl, and mumbled something about being late for work before all but sprinting away.
The second my feet hit the sidewalk, the spiral started again.
I couldn't even run back upstairs if I wanted to. I was the one who brought him in. This wasn't like a sitcom where I could just pretend it didn't happen. That man was in my apartment. With my cereal. My toilet paper. My address.
What if he steals my laptop? What if he trashes the place? What if he dies and I have to call the cops and explain why there's a corpse in my living room?
"Hello, officer, yes—I took him home because he looked kind of pitiful and now he's dead in front of my shoe rack."
I groaned out loud. A few people gave me looks. I ignored them and walked faster.
The train ride was a blur of static and self-loathing. By the time I stepped out at my stop, I was one good bump away from bursting into tears.
I walked into the building on autopilot, swiping my company ID at the glass gate like my soul wasn't quietly slipping out of my body. The little green light beeped, allowing me entry like I was normal. Like I wasn't harboring a criminal.
People greeted me. I smiled, waved awkwardly, probably looked like I was trying to hold in a fart. I nodded at Mr. Park in accounting. Bowed too low to the new intern. Took a sharp left into the hallway and practically dove into the safe little purgatory of my cubicle.
And sat there. Frozen.
Because it hit me again.
I took home a stranger. He's in my house. He got shot. He bled on my floor. He insulted my curtains.
What the fuck is my life.
I didn't even have time to google "symptoms of blood loss" or "how to know if a man is lying about being dying" before my screen pinged.
A message from my superior, Mr. Lane. 'Come to my office.'
I stared at the message for a solid five seconds.
Then another five.
Then I let my head fall onto my keyboard and whispered,
"I should've just left him by the trash."
I sucked in a breath. Squared my shoulders. Pushed every spiraling, unhinged, irrational thought about wounded men and nosey landladies into a mental drawer and slammed it shut.
Work. Focus. Pretend like you didn't almost commit a felony last night.
I tapped lightly on the door to Mr. Lane's office.
"Come in," came the clipped reply.
I opened it, and stopped dead in my tracks.
Oh.
There he was.
Aaron.