Summer's POV

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the warmth.

The second is the smell, faint smoke, mint, and rain.

The ceiling above me isn't cracked or stained. The sheets are silk, soft against my skin. It takes me a full minute to realize I'm not lying on the street or some dirty floor. I'm in a bed. A real one.

And then I see him.

Alexander De Rossi.

He's sitting in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up, smoke from his cigarette curling through the air. The dim light from the lamp turns the side of his face golden, making his eyes look darker, deeper. He's staring at the window, but I can tell he's not really seeing it.

He looks... tired. Haunted, maybe.

But beautiful in a way I don't want to admit.

I shift a little, wincing when pain shoots up my ribs. The soft sound I make must've caught his attention, because his head snaps toward me instantly.

"You're awake," he says. His voice is low, rough, like he hasn't slept.

"Where am I?"

"My place." He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. "You fainted after the doctor left. I wasn't sure if you'd wake up tonight."

His words make my chest tighten. "You stayed?"

He leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. "I wasn't going to leave you alone."

The way he says it, quiet, steady, honest, makes my heart stumble. Men like him don't sound like that.

I look away, trying to hide the heat rising in my cheeks. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

He pauses, and then his voice softens. "But I wanted to."

My pulse quickens. There's a silence between us now, not awkward, but heavy, charged. His gaze lingers on me, tracing the lines of my face as if memorizing that I'm still here, still breathing.

He stands and walks closer. Every step of his boots echoes inside my chest. He reaches the bedside table and pours me a glass of water. His fingers brush mine when he hands it to me, a brief, electric touch that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Drink," he murmurs.

I obey without thinking. His hand stays close, steadying the glass when my hand trembles. His palm is warm. He smells like smoke and rain.

When I finish, I whisper, "Thank you... for saving me."

He looks at me for a long time before replying. "Don't thank me for that, Summer."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't do it to be a hero." His gaze drops to my lips before finding my eyes again. "I did it because I couldn't stand seeing someone touch what's mine."

My breath catches.

"Yours?" I whisper, unsure if I heard him right.

He exhales sharply, as if realizing what he just said. But he doesn't take it back. "You don't understand it yet," he says, voice low, husky. "But you will."

My heartbeat won't calm down. His eyes hold mine, dark, intense, dangerous, but behind all that fire, I see something else. Worry. Guilt. Need.

He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. The scent of whiskey and smoke clings to his shirt, but beneath that, there's something softer, warmth I didn't expect from a man like him.

"You should rest," he murmurs, adjusting the blanket over me. His fingers graze my collarbone, and I forget how to breathe.

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then quietly adds, "You're safe here, Summer. I promise."

I want to believe him.

And when I look into his eyes, I do.

I close my eyes for a moment, and before I know it, I feel his hand brush my hair away from my face. Gentle. Careful. As if touching me might break something inside him.

"Sleep," he says softly, almost like a whisper meant only for me.

My body relaxes, but my heart won't stop racing. I can feel him still sitting there beside me, guarding me like a secret.

And before the darkness pulls me back under, I hear his voice again, low and almost tender.

"Don't ever scare me like that again."

I wish I could answer. But all I can do is dream of the man who shouldn't care... yet somehow does.

SUMMER'S POV

Warm sunlight slipped through the curtains, soft and golden. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The sheets beneath me were smooth, the scent of clean linen and something faintly masculine filled the air, expensive cologne, familiar and comforting.

Then memory hit me like cold water. The alley. The men. His voice.

Alexander.

My eyes flew open. I was in a wide room, ceiling high, curtains heavy and velvet-dark. It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't my apartment. It was his mansion.

I pushed myself up, wincing as a dull ache pulsed through my arm. Bandages. My wrist was wrapped, my cheek tender. On the bedside table, a tray held a glass of water and medicine. Someone had taken care of me.

Someone-him.

But when my gaze darted to the clock on the wall, my breath caught.

10:47 a.m.

My heart dropped. "Mom," I whispered, voice shaking.

I threw off the blanket and jumped from the bed, ignoring the pain that shot through my side. I was supposed to visit her early. She hated being alone at the hospital, especially in the mornings when the nurses changed shifts. I promised her I'd bring her breakfast today.

Panic clawed up my throat. I grabbed my old jeans and the first shirt I found on the chair beside the bed. My hands were trembling as I tried to zip the bag I'd found near the couch.

But before I could reach the door-

"Going somewhere?"

His voice. Deep. Calm. Dangerous in the way it made my pulse skip.

I froze.

Alexander stood by the doorway, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slightly tousled, and the faintest trace of a smirk curved his lips.

He looked too composed, too perfect, and I was a mess, barefoot and panicked.

"My mom," I blurted, barely able to breathe. "She's in the hospital, I-I overslept. I need to go."

He studied me for a second, then stepped forward. "You're still recovering. You shouldn't be running around."

"I don't care," I said, tears threatening to fall. "She's sick. I have to go, please move."

He didn't.

Instead, he reached out, gently taking my wrist. His touch was firm, warm, grounding. "I'll take you."

"What?" I blinked.

"I'll drive you there," he said simply, as if it was non-negotiable. "Get your things. You're not going alone."

"But you don't have to-"

"I'm not asking," he interrupted softly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm coming."

Something in his eyes, calm but possessive, made my words die in my throat.

---

The ride was quiet at first. Rain had stopped, but the streets were still damp, sunlight reflecting off puddles. The air inside his black car smelled like leather and faint cologne. I sat beside him, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt, trying not to look at him too much.

Alexander drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee. His jawline was sharp against the morning light, and his eyes flicked to me occasionally, unreadable.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I turned to him. "Why are you doing this?"

He glanced at me briefly. "Doing what?"

"All of this," I said, voice trembling slightly. "Saving me. Letting me stay in your house. Now driving me to the hospital. You barely know me."

He didn't answer right away. His hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "Maybe I don't need to know you to care," he said at last.

I stared at him, confused. "That doesn't make sense."

He smirked faintly. "Not everything has to."

Silence settled between us again, heavy but warm. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me even when he wasn't looking. Something in the way he said those words made my heart beat faster, though I tried to ignore it.

When we stopped at a red light, he finally turned to face me. "You shouldn't have been there that night," he said, voice lower, rougher. "Those men... they would've killed you."

I swallowed hard. "I didn't have a choice."

He looked at me then, really looked like he was trying to read every secret written behind my eyes. "You always have a choice, Summer," he said quietly. "And from now on, you won't face it alone."

The light turned green, but he didn't move right away.

My heart thudded painfully. "What do you mean?"

He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening for the first time. "I'm not a man who believes in fate," he said. "But ever since that night happened to us, I can't stop thinking about you. I don't know if it's a curse or something else, but it's real."

I tried to look away, but his voice pulled me back like gravity.

He leaned slightly closer, eyes dark and unwavering. "You asked why I'm doing this?"

I nodded, breath shaky.

He smiled, slow, dangerous, but heartbreakingly gentle.

"Because you're going to marry me."

I froze, the world falling silent. "Wh–what?"

His lips curved into that same calm, confident smile. "You heard me."

Before I could speak, he started the car again, his hand brushing mine briefly on the gear shift. Electricity shot through me.

I turned to the window, my heart racing, my mind spinning, but one thought refused to leave.

He meant it.

Alexander De Rossi wasn't a man who joked. And somewhere deep inside, beyond fear and confusion, a small, dangerous part of me wondered what if he wasn't saying it as a threat?

What if it was a promise?