"Ava!"

Dad stared at me for several long seconds, his gaze moving from my mud-stained clothes to the dried blood on my sleeve and the open toolbox lying nearby. The warmth in his expression disappeared, replaced by concern.

"Ava..." he said quietly. "What happened?"

My mouth went dry as I  searched for the right words, but before I could answer, another low groan drifted from beneath the tarp. The sound froze both of us.

Dad slowly stepped around me despite my instinctive attempt to block his path. My heart pounded so violently that I could barely breathe.

"Dad..."

But he didn't stop. With one swift movement, he pulled the tarp away and the stranger's pale, bloodstained face came into view.

"...Ava."

The single word carried disbelief, fear, and a hundred unanswered questions.

The bucket slipped from his hand and crashed onto the wooden floor. Grain scattered across the barn while silence settled heavily around us. The only sound left was the stranger's uneven breathing.

I lowered my head as guilt tightened painfully in my chest.

"I found him last night," I admitted quietly. "He was bleeding badly. At first he pointed a gun at me, but he collapsed before he could do anything. I couldn't leave him here to die."

Dad looked from me to the unconscious man again, rubbing a tired hand over his face as he tried to process everything.

"He had a gun?" he asked.

I nodded. For a long moment, he said nothing and when he finally spoke, his voice remained calm, though I could hear the worry beneath it.

"Ava... do you realize how dangerous this could have been?"

"I do."

He gave a slow shake of his head and instead of scolding me, he crouched beside the stranger and carefully examined the fresh bandages around his waist. His brows lifted slightly.

"You treated this?"

"Yeah,I removed the bullet."

He looked at me in surprise and a small, proud smile briefly appeared before worry replaced it again.

"You did well," he said softly. "I'm proud of you." His eyes drifted back to the stranger.

"But I'm terrified. Whoever this man is... he isn't ordinary."

I silently agreed because even unconscious, the stranger looked dangerous. Old scars crossed his hands and forearms, while his muscular frame remained tense, as though years of violence had trained his body never to relax completely. A dark tattoo disappeared beneath the torn sleeve of his shirt. Dad's expression changed the instant he noticed it. A flicker of recognition crossed his face before he quickly hid it.

"What is it?" I asked.

He released the man's arm almost immediately.

"Nothing."

The answer came too quickly. I had known my father my entire life, and I knew when he was hiding something and the uneasiness in his eyes only confirmed it.

Before I could question him further, the stranger shifted restlessly as a strained groan escaped his lips.

His breathing became shallow and uneven as sweat gathered across his forehead.

I immediately knelt beside him, pressing a cool cloth against his burning skin.

"His fever's getting worse. If we leave him here, he might not survive."

Dad remained silent, his jaw tightening as he weighed the risk against the man lying helplessly before us. Finally, he sighed.

"We'll move him inside."

Relief washed through me.

"But," he continued firmly, "the moment he becomes a threat, I'm calling the sheriff."

"I understand."

Together we lifted him from the hay. Dad carried most of his weight while I supported his legs, and even then, every step back to the farmhouse felt exhausting. By the time we settled him onto the old iron bed in the guest room, both of us were breathing heavily.

Dad carefully removed the bandages I had wrapped around the wound, inspecting my work before cleaning it again with practiced hands. When he finished securing fresh dressings, he gave a small nod of approval and gathered the bloodstained clothes into a bucket before looking at me.

"I'll prepare some broth. Stay here and clean him up."

After he left, the room became quiet again.

I soaked a clean cloth in cool water and gently wiped away the dried blood and dirt covering the stranger's face and neck. Without the grime, I noticed details I had missed the night before.

His features were strikingly handsome despite the exhaustion etched across them. A faint scar traced his jawline, while another disappeared beneath dark stubble. More scars covered his shoulders, each one telling a story I couldn't begin to imagine.

Whoever he was, violence seemed to have followed him for years.

As I cleaned his shoulder, part of the tattoo became visible beneath the torn fabric and well, curiosity got the better of me.

I leaned closer, tracing the edge of the black design with the damp cloth before lightly brushing my fingertips over the ink, wondering what it meant.

Just then, a strong hand suddenly clamped around my wrist like iron.

I froze immediately as I felt pain burning my wrist. His eyes were still closed but his grip was iron. The warmth I'd felt while tending to him vanished beneath the crushing strength of his hand. Even weak and feverish, he was frighteningly strong. Red marks immediately bloomed under his fingers as he slowly opened his eyes.

Dark eyes met mine. They were unfocused from fever, yet sharp enough to make my heart skip a beat. They searched my face with open suspicion, as though he expected danger even after waking.

"Who... the hell are you?" he asked with his voice rough and hoarse.

I swallowed hard.

"My name is Ava," I answered carefully, trying not to sound frightened. "You're safe."

He stared at me without blinking and for a moment, I wondered if I'd said the wrong thing. His expression didn't soften in the slightest.

Slowly, he tried to push himself upright.

The movement lasted barely a second before pain twisted across his face. His breathing became uneven, and I instinctively reached forward and placed both hands against his shoulders to stop him.

"Don't," I said gently. "You'll tear your stitches open."

"I have to."

"No," I insisted, meeting his eyes despite the nervous flutter in my chest. "Not yet."

For several tense seconds neither of us moved.

Finally, he gave up the struggle and leaned back against the pillows with a quiet groan. Only then did his hand loosen around my wrist.

I rubbed the sore skin, trying to ignore the sting.

"I'm sorry," he muttered after a brief silence.

The apology surprised me but I looked at the angry red marks on my wrist before offering him a small smile.

"You've got quite the grip."

Something flickered across his face, too brief for me to identify, before his expression became unreadable again.

He studied me carefully, as though trying to decide whether I could be trusted.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"At my family's farmhouse. Willow Creek."

His eyes drifted around the small guest room, taking in the faded curtains, the wooden furniture, and the old rocking chair near the window.

"You treated me?"

I hesitated before nodding.

"You were bleeding badly. I... removed the bullet."

For the first time since he'd awakened, genuine surprise crossed his face.

"You?"

"Yeah, I've helped my father treat injured animals for years. I just did what I could."

He remained silent for a long moment.

"...Thank you."

The words caught me off guard. I hadn't expected gratitude from the man who had pointed a gun at me only hours earlier.

A small smile escaped before I could stop it.

"I'll take that as proof you're feeling a little better."

Before either of us could speak again, Dad walked into the room carrying fresh bandages.

His calm expression barely changed, but I noticed the careful way he observed our guest, missing nothing.

"How's the fever?" I asked.

Dad rested a hand against the stranger's forehead before checking the bandage around his waist.

"Still too high," he answered quietly. "He needs rest."

He looked at me.

"Ava, make some willow bark tea. Add extra honey."

I nodded and hurried downstairs.

A few minutes later, I returned with a steaming mug. The bitter smell filled the room before I even reached the bed.

I smiled apologetically as I handed it to him.

"It tastes awful," I admitted, "but it'll help."

Supporting his back carefully, I helped him sit just enough to drink without disturbing the wound. He accepted the mug without complaint.

As he drank, curiosity finally got the better of me.

"I told you my name," I said softly. "What's yours?"

He lowered the mug slightly before answering.

"Dante."

I tilted my head.

"Just Dante?"

"For now."

It wasn't really an answer, but somehow I hadn't expected one and besides, the name suited him.

After a moment, I smiled.

"Can I call you Dan?"

He looked at me as though nobody had ever asked him that before. The silence stretched long enough for me to wonder if I'd offended him but finally, he gave a faint nod.

"If you want."

"Good," I said, smiling a little wider. "Dan it is."

He didn't smile back, but something about his expression seemed less guarded than before.

When he finished the tea, I took the empty mug and helped him lie back against the pillows and almost immediately, exhaustion claimed him again. His eyelids grew heavy, and within moments his breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm. I adjusted the blanket over him, making sure it covered his shoulders before quietly brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

"Get some sleep," I whispered. "Your body needs it."

He didn't answer. Within seconds, he was asleep once more.

I stood there for another moment, watching the stranger who had stumbled into my life less than twenty-four hours earlier.

He was still a mystery, still dangerous. Yet somehow... I no longer believed he was the monster I'd imagined when he first pressed a gun against my side.

Just then, a gentle touch on my shoulder pulled me from my thoughts.

“ Honey, come with me," Dad said quietly.

I followed him into the hallway, gently closing the guest room door behind us.

"When he's strong enough to leave," Dad said, folding his arms, "he has to go."

"I know."

"No arguments."

"There won't be any." I nodded. "As soon as he's recovered, he'll leave. I promise."

Dad searched my face, wanting to believe me, yet something troubled him. He opened his mouth as though he had something important to tell me.

"Ava... there's something I should…"

Just then, a knock sounded on the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.