3

JACKSON POV

I was still kneeling beside the couch, frozen in place, my wrist still trapped in his firm grip. Those ice blue eyes still stared at me, cutting through all my thoughts.

The silence that just stretched between us as we gazed at each other felt like an eternity but was probably just a few seconds.

Then slowly, the man's grip loosened. His hand fell away, and he blinked, confusion replacing whatever intensity had been there before.

“Where…?” He spoke in a grudge voice, accented in a way I couldn't place.

“My apartment,” I managed, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. “You were hit by a car. You were bleeding, but—”

My eyes moved to his temple, where the wound should have been but somehow wasn't anymore. “I brought you here because you were hurt.”

His hand went to his head, his fingers moving through the spot I was staring at, his brows furrowing even deeper in confusion.

“I don't…” He closed his eyes, concentrating. “I can’t remember.”

“Remember what?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.

“Anything,” his eyes snapped open and there was a quiet panic written on his face.

“You don't…you don't remember anything?” I blurt out, feeling the same level of panic now.

He shook his head slowly, then winced like the movement hurt. His hand went back to his temple, fingers searching more carefully this time.

“I don't know where I am, I don't…I don't remember my name.” He mutters, his voice growing low and grim. “Nothing.

I rock back on my heels, my mind racing. Okay. Okay. Amnesia. That's a thing that happens with head trauma, right?

Nevermind that the head trauma healed minutes ago, nevermind the impossible strength in the dude's grip, never mind the way his eyes glowed.

This was all beyond not minding!

“We should get you to the hospital,” I said, reaching out for my phone again.

“No.” The words came out sharp and immediate. He stood up and I instinctively leaned back. “No hospitals.”

“You were hit by a car,” I argued, trying to sound reasonable even though nothing about this was reasonable. “You could have internal injuries, or even a concussion.”

“I'm fine.” He looked down at himself, at the blood on his strange clothes, and seemed to realize how that sounded. “I mean…I feel fine. I don't think I need a hospital.”

Something about the way he said that made me feel uneasy, he either hated hospitals or it was something more suspicious.

I wanted to argue more, but realistically, even if we wanted to go…I glanced toward the window across the room. The snow was fuming more than ever, it was equivalent to a winterland out there.

We were getting nowhere tonight.

“Fine,” I sighed, not sure if I was relieved or more worried. “Can you at least tell me if anything hurts? Your head, your ribs, your legs?”

He did a careful self-assessment, moving his limbs experimentally, pressing his hands against his side. “No. Nothing hurts.”

He looked up at me, and there was something distressed in his expression. “It should, shouldn't it? I remember the car's impact. I should be in pain.”

He should be dead.

This was all so weird. There were just too many questions to be asked about dark and hunky over here but I was trying my best to not think about it and solve the problem at hand.

I stood, needing some distance to think clearly. “Okay, okay,” I waved my hands in the air. “No hospital, but you are covered in blood and your clothes are soaked. You need to get cleaned up and warmed, then we can figure out what to do next.”

He nodded slowly, looking around my apartment like he was seeing one for the first time.

It was the living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom combo that I manage to afford with my job and help from my parents. It wasn't much, but I kept it neat and cozy.

Every available shelf was cluttered with books, a thick blanket draped the couch, my laptop on the coffee table surrounded by reading materials and highlighters.

Evidence of my quiet, normal life, everything it was supposed to be but now, there was a bleeding stranger—except he wasn't bleeding anymore—standing in the middle of it.

“The bathroom's through there,” I said, pointing. “I'll find you some clean clothes. We're about the same height, so they should fit.” I hesitated. “Can you walk?”

He stood in one smooth motion—no wobbling, no weakness. He was tall, maybe six-two to my five-eleven, and built in that lean, defined-muscle kind of way.

 “I can walk,” he said simply.

I led him to the bathroom, aware of how cramped my apartment suddenly felt with him in it. How his presence seemed to fill the space between us and I wasn't talking about his size.

I grabbed a clean towel from the linen closet and set it on the counter. “Take your time. I'll leave the clothes outside the door.”

He moved inside and touched the towel, then the sink, then the light switch, with this kind of careful curiosity. He looked almost like a child.

When he caught me watching, something flickered across his face—embarrassment maybe.

“Thank you,”he said quietly. “For helping me…you didn't have to.”

Something in my chest tightened. “Not like I could have left you in the snow.” I said, managing to smile.

I closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, heart still hammering. I looked down at my hands that were trembling uncontrollably, blood stuck under my nails.

I should be calling someone. Maya, except she was in Korea. My parents, except that would be an utter disaster. The police, except the cell towers were completely down.

I should be making more of an effort at least but…

When I closed my eyes, all I could see was his face when he'd said he didn't know his name. The obvious fear and confusion and desperate need to understand.

How could I not want to protect that kind of thing?