The night air behind the hospital had that weird smell part medicinal, part moonlight, and part "someone really needs to water these plants."
Ayanna wandered behind the hospital, needing a break. The day had drained her emotionally, physically, and philosophically.
Her father was inside, unconscious. Some nosy aunty had just proposed a marriage alliance with her third cousin from Kerala — who, according to Google, looked like he hadn't evolved past the flip phone era.
And now, she was walking aimlessly behind the hospital, muttering like a sleep-deprived ghost.
"Dear universe," she said, looking up, "send me a sign. Not a marriage proposal. A sign."
CRASH.
“OH MY GOD,” Ayanna yelped, jumping nearly out of her skin.
Somewhere near the old service road that looped behind the hospital, a car had plowed straight into a lamppost. The crash was loud dramatic enough for a background score. Smoke curled into the air like a ghost doing yoga.
“Okay, okay, I meant like a metaphorical sign, not an actual explosion,” Ayanna whispered, already sprinting.
As she reached the scene, she stopped dead.
A luxury black car — matte finish, custom rims, clearly owned by someone who paid for things in cashmere — was now hugging a concrete lamppost like it owed it money.
And inside?
A man. Slumped. Bleeding. Alone.
Ayanna’s jaw dropped.
“Sir? Hello?” She tapped on the glass. No response. The windshield was cracked, the hood slightly steaming, and there was a tiny fire near the front tire that made her nervous.
She didn’t wait for backup. She yanked the car door open — or rather, wrestled it open with a lot of internal screaming — and stared at the man inside.
Broad chest. Designer shirt now bloodstained. Strong jaw. Definitely expensive face.
Also? Definitely unconscious.
And heavy.
Like, “why didn’t I hit the gym in college” heavy.
“Great. Tall, rich, and passed out,” she muttered, checking his pulse. “Still breathing. Cool. Let’s get this Hulk out.”
Ayanna was 5'4" on a good day, with the build of someone who avoided PE class all her life. But adrenaline and panic are magical things.
With several groans, a muttered prayer, and the strength of sheer stubbornness, she half-carried, half-dragged the man out of the car.
“If you open your eyes and turn into a zombie, I will kick you. Just FYI,” she gasped, dragging him toward the hospital gate.
Ayanna burst through the emergency doors, panting and sweaty, carrying the man like a fireman in a very low-budget action movie.
“HELP! Rich man, unconscious, mild fire, and he’s very heavy!” she cried.
The nurse at the reception screamed. The security guard tripped over a chair. A young intern fainted.
Ayanna dumped the man onto the nearest available stretcher.
“Quick, someone check if he’s allergic to hospitals!” she said.
The doctors took over, wheeling him away while throwing confused looks at the girl in the stained kurti who was somehow both panicked and sarcastic.
Ayanna collapsed into a waiting chair.
“Ma’am,” a nurse approached, handing her water, “are you injured?”
“Only emotionally.”
Ayanna was now seated beside his bed, watching the unconscious man like he owed her answers.
She’d cleaned up, sort of. Her hair was a nest. Her sleeves were singed. She had a faint burn mark on her forearm that she refused to look at because she was saving her dramatic reaction for later.
The man now cleaned up and bandaged was still lying there, unmoving. His face was calm but cold. Like he was the kind of person who probably filed complaints if someone sneezed too loudly in first class.
Ayanna, of course, had questions.
She pulled out a page from her sketchbook and began scribbling a list.
Who are you?
Why were you driving like Fast & Furious but alone?
Why do you smell faintly of luxury cologne and regret?
Are you married?
Should I have stolen your wallet?
She was doodling a crash cloud around his nameplate (“A. DeSilva”) when he stirred.
His fingers twitched. His eyes fluttered.
Ayanna straightened up, clearing her throat. “Okay, okay. Time to switch to nurse mode.”
He opened his eyes. Dark, intense. The kind of stare that could freeze lava.
“Hey,” Ayanna said, leaning forward. “You’re alive! Congrats! That crash was… dramatic. Ten out of ten.”
Alexander blinked. His entire body ached. His head throbbed. And now a strange woman was hovering over him, smiling like she’d just delivered him from the womb.
“Who…” he began, voice hoarse.
She immediately cut in. “I found you. You crashed. I rescued you. Yes, I lifted you. Don’t ask how — it involved physics and emotional trauma.”
He frowned.
She plowed on. “Doctors say you’ll live, though your car might be in therapy. So. Let’s get the formalities done. What’s your name?”
He stared at her. “Alexander Mathew DeSilva.”
“Oof. You sound like a villain who wears three-piece suits at home.”
He said nothing. Just blinked. His face unreadable. No smile. No frown. Just… blank judgment.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” she added. “In case you’re wondering why you’re not barbecue meat right now.”
He looked away.
Ayanna squinted. “Wow. Gratitude is really not your strong suit, huh?”
He turned back slowly, voice low and precise. “Do you… always speak this much?”
“Yes,” she replied, unfazed. “Especially when I’m tired, annoyed, or saving unconscious men from burning vehicles.”
He closed his eyes for a second. Not to sleep — just to mentally cleanse his soul.
Ayanna leaned in slightly. “So, like, are you famous or something? You smell expensive.”
Alexander turned his head toward her, expression unchanged. “Why are you here?”
“I rescued you. Remember? It felt rude to dump you and leave. Also, someone has to check if you secretly wake up and attack people.”
He gave her a long, cold stare.
“Relax,” she said, patting his arm. “You don’t scare me. You look like you yell at waiter when your latte is wrong, but you’re not threatening.”
Alexander didn’t react. But something flickered in his eyes. Just for a second.
A crack in the ice.
“You’re annoying,” he muttered.
She beamed. “You’re conscious. I’ll take that as progress.”
He glanced at her burn mark. “You’re hurt.”
She shrugged. “Minor. You were major. Priorities.”
Alexander looked away again, face unreadable.
Ayanna stood. “Alright, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Constipated. I’m going to get you some water. Don’t try to escape.”
He didn’t respond.
But as she walked away, he let his eyes follow her for half a second.
Only half.
Then turned back to the window.
Still cold.
Still unreadable.
But for the first time in a long time… curious.
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