𝗥𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 | Park Seonghwa

six.

The drive to your apartment is shrouded in silence, save for the occasional movements of the stranger seated next to you. His battered appearance, complete with bloodstains on his face and likely hidden beneath his shirt, raises concern in your mind. You can't help but steal glances at him, trying to fathom the pain he must be enduring. It's evident from the way he clutches his stomach and struggled to walk in the store that he's been through a rough ordeal.

As the car comes to a halt, you prepare to exit, but a sudden realization grips you. The realization that you'll be the one responsible for carrying this injured stranger up three flights of stairs to your apartment. The absence of an elevator, which you've never minded before, suddenly becomes a heavy burden, and you curse yourself for your own impulsiveness.

Uttering a frustrated groan, you slam your hands on the steering wheel, your forehead sinking onto them moments later. "I'm such a dumbass!"

With a reluctant sigh, you force yourself into action, getting out of the car and moving around to the other side. Through the window, you observe as the boy leans heavily against the car door, even in his sleep testing your patience. You can't help but wonder how much more challenging it'll be when he's fully conscious.

Careful not to disturb him, you reach over to unbuckle his seatbelt, successfully managing to do so on the first try. Preparing to hoist him up yet again, you fail to notice his eyes blinking open, but you hear his moan of discomfort.

Instinctively, you lean him back against the seat, panic creeping in at the thought of him being in pain. His confused eyes search yours for answers, and he stammers, "Wh- who the hell are you?"

"I'm y/n. You passed out at the store. You're hurt, let me help you," you respond gently, trying not to overwhelm him further. His eyes, still tinged with the effects of the drugs, take their time comprehending his situation. "I don't need your help-"

He speaks with a hint of annoyance, pushing you away weakly as he makes a feeble attempt to stand. Initially hesitant, you decide to give him space, understanding that any forceful insistence would only agitate him more. He grows frustrated as his body fails to cooperate, his legs unable to bear his weight. Eventually, he gives up.

"My offer still stands," you say, a note of patience in your tone, waiting for his response as he struggles to make a decision. He shakes his head, too drained to argue, his eyelids growing heavy. He acquiesces, muttering, "Whatever."

His compliance surprises you; you expected him to resist or insist on going his own way. The boy is difficult to read, seemingly hiding behind a facade of strength. For now, you're relieved he's granted you permission to help, though you hope it's not due to his compromised state. A few seconds ago, you could have suggested taking him home, but sleep has once again claimed the exhausted boy, leaving this complex situation in your hands.