His To Keep

Fourteen Glass Houses.

Lily Malen

His knees buckled—

And my body moved before my mind had time to think.

I caught him.

Or at least, I tried to.

Adrian was heavier than I expected—solid muscle, tension wound tight beneath skin, and heat radiating from him like a fever.

His weight crashed into me all at once, the impact stealing the air from my lungs.

My arms locked around his torso, and we staggered together, my bare feet slipping against the polished floor.

“No—no, no—stay with me,” I gasped, my voice cracking under the panic clawing its way up my throat. “You have to make it to the couch. Please, Adrian—please.”

A low groan escaped him, more frustration than surrender, but his body leaned into mine.

His feet dragged with every step, and I could feel the warm, slick pulse of blood seeping through his shirt into my hands.

It clung to my skin, streaking my camisole in deep crimson, staining the silk in proof I couldn’t wash away.

“Please—don’t fall again. We’re almost there,” I urged, though I wasn’t sure if he could hear me. Or if he even cared.

But somehow—stumbling, breathless—we made it.

He collapsed onto the couch with a sharp exhale, the leather giving a low groan beneath his weight. His head fell back, jaw tightening, one arm hanging limp over the armrest while the other stayed clamped hard against his side.

The blood didn’t stop.

It was thick, dark, and relentless—spreading across the white fabric, dripping slow and steady.

I realized I was crying only when the salt touched my lips. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you bleeding?” My voice shook so hard it barely felt like mine. “You said you’d be fine. You told me—”

“I said maybe I would,” he rasped, the words jagged, thin. “You didn’t ask for guarantees, doll.”

Something sharp twisted in my chest. “I didn’t think I needed to,” I whispered.

His gaze, half-lidded and dim, flickered toward me, and for a heartbeat I thought he might say something else—something sharp, something cruel, something that would ground me. But instead, he just breathed in slowly, like even that small motion cost him more than it should.

My hand pressed against my sternum as though I could force my lungs to work. I couldn’t seem to breathe properly. My knees felt locked in place, the pounding in my head almost drowning out the sound of his uneven breathing.

This wasn’t happening.

But it was.

“I—I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, my voice small, breaking at the edges. “I don’t—”

His lashes lowered briefly, then lifted with effort. “First aid kit. Kitchen cabinet. Red tin box. Bring it.”

I nodded too quickly, desperate to do something—anything. “Okay. Yes. I can do that. Just… don’t—don’t pass out, okay?”

A faint smirk ghosted his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not planning on it.”

But the way his voice thinned on the last word made my stomach turn cold.

I turned and ran.

Not the careful, quiet steps I usually took in this house, afraid to make noise. No—this was frantic, full-bodied movement. My bare feet slapped against the marble, echoing in the silence.

I threw open the kitchen cabinet doors one after another, hands shaking so badly I almost missed it—the bright red tin box sitting on the middle shelf like it had been waiting for me.

I grabbed it with both hands, clutching it tight against my chest as I spun back toward the hall. My knees nearly buckled as I pushed forward, every step an urgency I didn’t know I could feel.

I had to get back to him.

I had to.

When I rounded the corner into the living room—

He had a phone in his hand.

Or… he was trying to.

It wobbled against his ear, his knuckles white from the strain of holding it there. His voice was low, frayed, every word pulled out like it hurt to speak.

“No. Get—just come to the house. Now. No delays. She’s here. She—” He cut off with a sharp hiss, his free hand clutching his side so hard I thought he might tear the fabric. “I don’t give a fuck what hour it is, just—”

“Adrian,” I breathed.

He didn’t look at me.

I crossed the room fast, dropped the first aid kit on the table, and sank to my knees beside him. My pulse was so loud in my ears it was almost drowning him out.

The phone slid from his hand.

I caught it before it hit the floor. “Hello?” My voice broke, raw with panic. “Who is this? Please—he’s bleeding. I don’t know what to do.”

A beat of silence. Then, steady and clipped: “I’m a doctor. I’m on my way.”

I nearly collapsed with relief. “Please come quickly,” I whispered. “Please.”

I hung up, letting the phone fall onto the rug as I turned back to him.

He was still breathing—but it was shallow, uneven. The white of his shirt was ruined, clinging to him in soaked, red patches. His knuckles gripped the edge of the cushion like he was holding himself to the couch by force alone.

I reached forward without thinking, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead. His skin was hot. Too hot.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, trying to lace the words with certainty I didn’t feel. “You have to be.”

The first aid tin rattled in my hands as I set it down beside me.

“I—” My voice caught. I swallowed and tried again. “Can I take your shirt off?”

His gaze lifted to mine—clouded, dark, but locked on me with a focus that almost felt like a warning. Then, the faintest nod.

I shifted closer, knees digging into the rug, my hands hovering over the buttons. I’d never been this close to him—not like this. And now, here I was, undressing him because he was bleeding out in front of me. My fingers shook, fumbling over the first button, the second.

When I finally peeled the fabric away from his side—

I froze.

The wound was worse than I’d imagined. A deep, ragged gash carved across his skin, the edges raw and angry. Blood welled up, slow but heavy, dark against the pale stretch of his torso. Bruises were already blooming around it, purple and yellow spreading like ink in water.

“Adrian…” My voice was so small it barely made it past my lips.

“Don’t lose it now,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his head tipping back against the couch. “Not when I’m still breathing.”

I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, I grabbed a folded cloth from the kit and pressed it hard to his side.

He sucked in a sharp breath, body jerking under my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I have to stop the bleeding.”

He didn’t answer—just gave a rough grunt, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.

“What happened?” I asked, even though part of me didn’t want to know.

His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. “Meeting went to hell. They tried to slit me open before I could finish business.”

My stomach dropped. “Did you… kill them?”

His jaw tightened. “Of course I did.”

I didn’t know whether to flinch or cling to him. He was dangerous. He was bleeding. And yet—every cell in my body was bent on one thing.

Keeping him alive.

Then—

The front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.

A gust of air cut through the heavy quiet, bringing with it the quick, hard slap of footsteps across the hardwood.

A man appeared in the doorway—mid-forties maybe, tall but slightly hunched, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt with a coffee stain down the front and shorts that didn’t quite match.

His hair stuck up in the back like he’d rolled straight out of bed and his jaw was dark with two days of stubble.

His black medical bag swung at his side, heavy enough to make the leather creak.

He looked… tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from just one night without sleep. But there was a sharpness in his eyes, a readiness, like someone who’d been doing this for too long to be caught off guard.

“Where is he?” His voice cracked across the room like a whip, already searching, already certain he wouldn’t like what he found. Then his gaze landed on Adrian, and something in his expression soured. “Ah, hell. Of course it’s you again.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Dropping to his knees by the couch, he unlatched the silver clips on his bag with quick, practiced snaps and snapped on a pair of powder-blue gloves.

“Stab wound?” he asked, as if they were discussing a scraped knee.

“Side,” Adrian rasped, voice sandpaper.

The doctor peeled back the makeshift cloth binding, his brow tightening as he took in the damage. A low whistle escaped him. “Jesus, Rossetti. An inch lower and you’d have been decorating the pavement with your intestines.”

Adrian scoffed, the sound short and bitter, as if even the thought of dying in the street was more annoying than frightening.

“You’re gonna need at least ten stitches,” the doctor said, reaching for a vial and needle without looking up. “Deep ones.”

It was only then that his eyes flicked to me—like he’d just now realized I was there. His gaze lingered, curious but not unkind.

“You the girlfriend?”

My mouth opened, caught between confusion and denial. “No, I—”

“She’s not,” Adrian cut in, his tone flat and clipped, as if the words themselves were an inconvenience.

The doctor gave a knowing roll of his eyes. “Whatever. He’s gonna need something to hold onto. This is gonna suck.”

Adrian’s glare sharpened. “I don’t—”

The needle bit before he could finish.

The sound that ripped from Adrian’s throat was rough, strangled—somewhere between a curse and a suppressed groan—and his hand shot out, instinctive and unthinking.

It found mine.

His palm was rough, hot, his grip a vice that sent a tremor up my arm. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just held on like the alternative was worse.

I stayed still, knees pressed into the rug, his blood seeping warm against my skin. The heat of him was startling—alive and fierce in a way that made my own breath catch. My fingers curled around his without meaning to, the steadiness of the contact grounding me even as my pulse climbed.

Another stitch. His hand clamped tighter, bone against bone.

“You could’ve died,” I whispered, my throat tight, the edges of my vision stinging. “They could’ve killed you.”

“They didn’t,” he growled, low and final, like it was the only part of the conversation worth having.

Another stitch. Another crushing squeeze.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until I tasted the metallic tang of blood, but I didn’t pull away.

And neither did he.

The doctor’s hands moved with brisk efficiency, swabbing away the blood with practiced strokes until Adrian’s skin was slick only with antiseptic. The rag he used turned a dark, ugly red before he tossed it aside and reached for fresh gauze.

“There,” the man muttered, pressing the clean bandage over the sutures before securing it with tape. “Now—bed rest. A few days at least. Let the wound close up and start healing before you go playing gangster again.”

“Fuck that,” Adrian said without hesitation, his voice a low, gravelly snap. “I’ve got work to do.”

The doctor shot him a flat look, but didn’t bother arguing.

Adrian still hadn’t let go of my hand. His grip wasn’t crushing now—just steady, anchored, as though letting go would be some kind of concession. My fingers had gone almost numb in his, but I didn’t pull away.

“The meds I gave you should start kicking in within the hour,” the doctor said, packing his supplies back into the black bag with quick, efficient movements.

“Okay,” I murmured, glancing at Adrian’s pale, drawn face before looking back at the man. “Thank you. And I’m… sorry for the late call.”

The lines around his eyes eased a little. “It’s fine,” he said, zipping the bag closed. “I’ve had worse wake-up calls.” Then he turned to Adrian, his expression sharpening again. “But you—don’t pull this shit again.”

Adrian said nothing, but his hand tightened faintly around mine, the only acknowledgment he gave.

°°°°°

I scrubbed my hands until the skin burned.

The water had long since gone cold, icy and numbing against the raw flesh, but I kept going.

The pale stream ran pink, curling away down the drain like it was trying to carry the memory with it.

It didn’t. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I could still feel it—his blood—clinging stubbornly under my nails, sitting in the thin creases between my knuckles.

My hands didn’t even look like mine anymore.

They looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone guilty.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, my fingers were trembling from the cold, and the towel I used barely warmed them.

The quiet of the house pressed around me.

He was still there—slouched back against the couch like a man too tired to pretend otherwise.

He’d changed into a black shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp from a shower, but the weight in his expression hadn’t lifted.

If anything, he looked… human. That was worse. The untouchable, unbreakable version of him was terrifying, yes—but the reminder that he could bleed, could falter, could be hurt—made my stomach knot in a way I didn’t want to name.

I hovered a few feet away, wringing my fingers together like they might twist into something useful.

My throat felt tight. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to speak yet—if the questions clawing at my chest would irritate him or worse, make him think I was…

ungrateful. But they came anyway, tripping out before I could catch them.

“I-I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful. Or upset, I just…” My mouth felt dry. “What… what happened? You said it was a meeting, but—”

His eyes closed for a moment, his head tilting back against the couch like he was counting in his head.

“Deal went sideways,” he said at last, voice flat. “They tried to take what wasn’t theirs. I handled it.”

I shifted my weight. “And the wound? They just… got to you first?”

His head inclined once.

“They were faster than I expected. One got close enough to cut. I was faster after that.”

I stared at him, my chest pulling tight until it hurt to breathe. I didn’t know what I was allowed to feel in moments like this. I didn’t know if my worry was a kindness or an annoyance. But it pressed at me until it slipped out in a whisper.

“I was scared.”

His gaze cut to me instantly, sharp but unreadable.

“When you walked through the door… all that blood…” My voice caught. “I didn’t know if you were going to die. Or kill someone else. Or—both. I didn’t know what to do.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“You don’t need to be scared,” he said. “I can handle myself.”

“But what if one day you can’t?” The question came out too quickly, too raw, before I could think better of it. “What if they’re faster next time? Or you’re alone again—what if you don’t make it back?”

His eyes narrowed.

Then, in that unshakably calm way of his, he tilted his head. “Are you saying I’m weak?”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. “N-no! I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

His mouth curved in the smallest smirk, like my panic was nothing more than an amusing distraction from whatever else was in his head.

Heat rushed into my face. I looked away quickly, wishing I could sink into the floor. My skin prickled with awareness of the thin straps of my tank top, of the way the air touched too much bare skin. I folded my arms across my chest, tugging the hem down as if I could make myself smaller, safer.

Then his voice cut through the quiet again—low, rough, like gravel dragged over stone, but cold and sharp beneath the exhaustion.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

I froze.

My arms snapped tighter across my chest as heat rushed to my cheeks, burning hotter by the second.

“I—I was just watching a movie,” I stammered, voice small and unsteady. “I didn’t think anyone was home. I—it’s just pajamas. I didn’t mean—I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Clearly.”

His rasped mutter somehow made it worse—like a verdict I hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.

“I’ll go change—” I started to turn, the instinct to escape rising, my skin prickling with sudden shame. I wanted to disappear, to melt through the floor and be anywhere but here.

“No.”

I stopped.

He was sitting up now, grimacing at the movement, the tight line of his jaw pulling taut with pain, but still sharp. Still undeniably in control.

“You don’t need to change.”

I blinked, confused, my breath catching.

“I just didn’t expect you to look like…” His words faltered, unfinished. “Forget it.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Something twisted deep in my chest at the way he looked at me—not like a possession or a trophy, not like I’d been before—but like I’d thrown him off balance. Like I was something he didn’t fully understand.

Then, softer, almost reluctant:

“You surprised me.”

I swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

And suddenly, the silence wasn’t heavy or awkward anymore. It just was—settled and real.

I hesitated near the edge of the couch, my bare feet shifting soundlessly against the cold floor.

“Can I sit?”

Adrian didn’t bother to look at me as he answered. His head tilted back, one hand pressed lightly to the side of his ribs, his voice low and tired.

“You don’t need permission.”

Still, I froze for a heartbeat longer—because I wasn’t sure if he meant it. Not really. Not in a way that would make me feel safe.

Slowly, carefully, I eased down beside him. My back stayed straight, posture rigid as if I was still being watched. My hands folded neatly in my lap, ankles pressed tightly together like a doll waiting for approval.

He noticed.

His head shifted—just enough to catch a glimpse of how I was sitting. His eyes narrowed, unreadable and sharp.

“Relax,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

I blinked, startled.

Then, just as I was about to pull away, I felt the faintest tug at the back of my shirt—his fingers closing gently on the soft fabric and guiding me back against the couch cushions.

It wasn’t harsh. Not rough. But it was definite.

I let myself sink an inch deeper, my shoulder just close enough to his to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

My knees curled up, legs folding beneath me as I hugged them loosely to my chest, trying to steady the rush of heat and confusion swirling inside me.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly, my voice barely more than a whisper against the quiet room.

His jaw twitched, a quick, involuntary tick that made his face even harder to read. Then his voice came out sharp, rough-edged and raw.

“Obviously fucking not.”

I flinched, startled by the sudden edge.

“I just meant—” My words stumbled, my voice breaking. “I was scared. With all the blood, and the pain... I can’t even imagine. I thought you—”

“Scared?” His tone was almost mocking, but I couldn’t tell if it was a challenge or disbelief.

I nodded slowly, eyes downcast. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought maybe you wouldn’t come back.”

He turned away slightly, the shadows hiding the dark weight in his eyes. Then, without warning, a dry, humorless scoff slipped from him.

“You worry too much.”

I bit my lip, the taste bitter and salty.

He looked back at me, his gaze locking on mine this time—steady, cold, and somehow curious.

“Why?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Why...?”

“Why do you care so much?” His voice was flat, almost tired. “You’ve known me for what—two weeks? Three?”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his stare pinning me in place. My gaze dropped to my knees, fingers twisting in my lap. “I... I don’t know.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with things unsaid and feelings too raw to name.

“I just… didn’t want you to be gone,” I whispered, voice fragile and small. “That’s all.”

He said nothing.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Maybe I’d crossed some invisible line by admitting that.

We sat in the stillness, the tension settling around us like dust, unmoving and suffocating.

Then, as if the silence had worn on him too long, his voice cut through again—dry, low, and almost reluctant:

“Were you alright while I was gone?”

The question caught me off guard. His gaze wasn’t soft—never soft—but something in it lingered, searching beneath the surface.

I nodded slowly, though uncertainty churned beneath the surface. “Yes. I think so.”

But the truth was a tangle of fear and loneliness I couldn’t untie just yet.

I hesitated, unsure what he wanted from me. His eyes held me in place, weighing my every breath, every flicker of expression. Was this a test? A challenge? Or just a quiet attempt to reach across the distance between us?

I didn’t know.

So I said it anyway. Quietly. Carefully.

"I didn't run."

The words felt heavier than I expected.

"I didn't steal anything. I didn't try to leave or lie or... or take advantage of anything." I glanced at him, but his expression didn't change.

Still unreadable. Still watching.

"I figured maybe you were wondering. So... I wanted to say it out loud."

A long pause stretched between us.

Then, without looking at me: "What did you do?"

His voice wasn't harsh. Just clipped. Controlled. Like he didn't expect much of an answer - or maybe wasn't sure if he wanted one.

I shifted a little, fingers tugging at the hem of my shorts.

"I don't know if you really care to hear," I mumbled, staring down at my knees.

"I asked, didn't I?"

That caught me off guard. I blinked. Then nodded.

"I kept myself busy. I didn't know what I was allowed to do, but... the garden was really overgrown. So I cleaned it up."

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't speak.

"I trimmed the hedges and pulled weeds. I planted new things - just flowers, I didn't want to mess up anything important. I watered them every morning."

Still nothing. He was listening though. That I could tell.

"I made dinner most nights. Nothing crazy, just... food I know how to make. I tried to portion extra for the staff - the security guys, Mary, Logan. I figured maybe they didn't always get meals like that. I didn't mean to overstep-"

I stopped myself. Swallowed.

My hands were shaking a little in my lap, but I pressed on.

"There's more."

His shoulders tensed. Just barely.

"What did you do?" he asked, voice lower this time.

"I hope you won't be mad," I said quickly. "I didn't mean it to be disrespectful, I swear."

He didn't respond. Just waited.

"I brought in vases from the garden," I whispered. "The flowers I picked - I dried some of them. Logan helped me get frames. I thought they might brighten up the house a little. I... I didn't ask first, I know I should've. I just wanted to make it feel less cold."

My throat tightened.

"I put a vase in your office," I added, almost too quiet to hear.

Silence.

I didn't look up. I didn't breathe. My fingers twisted in the hem of my tank top until the fabric threatened to tear.

Still, he said nothing.

And that - that - was worse than being yelled at.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy—pressing down so hard it felt like it might crush me.

I couldn’t hold it anymore.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I whispered, voice raw and trembling, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Please don’t be mad.”

Still, he said nothing.

My throat tightened painfully, my voice breaking on the words that followed.

“I just… I didn’t know what to do while you were gone. I didn’t want to sit and do nothing. I wasn’t trying to change things, I swear. Just—just don’t yell at me. I hate when people yell.”

I blinked hard, forcing the tears back before they could spill over.

“I’m sorry,” I added, voice barely more than a breath. “I’ll take it all down if you want me to.”

His hand shifted—just a fraction—and I jumped, heart pounding.

But it wasn’t a push away.

His voice came next—quieter than usual, deep and rough but lacking its usual sharp edge.

“I’m not mad.”

I froze, breath caught in my chest.

He exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes closing for just a second.

“You’re ruining everything,” he muttered, voice laced with something close to exhaustion. “This house was built to be cold. Controlled. Sharp edges, locked doors. That’s how I made it.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at me, something unreadable flickering behind the dark depths. Not kindness—no—but not cruelty either.

“And now there are vases.”

My stomach flipped—caught somewhere between hope and fear.

I followed his gaze to the small round vase on the table beside the couch. It held carefully trimmed garden flowers—soft white and pale blush petals, speckled with sprigs of lavender.

“I picked those yesterday,” I said softly. “From the far side of the garden.”

He hummed—a sound almost like approval—and his eyes lingered on the vase longer than I expected.

“I’ll have to take a look at it,” he murmured.

My eyes widened slightly.

“Really?”

He gave a faint nod.

“Are you really not mad?”

Slowly, he turned his head toward me. Exhaustion lined his face—the set jaw, the heavy lids—but there was something distant there too. Like a man too tired to care fully, but not so far gone that he missed the warmth I’d brought with me.

“No,” he said, voice rough and low. “I’m not.”

I nodded, but the pressure in my chest didn’t ease entirely.

I didn’t know what to make of his stillness, or the way he looked at the vase like it was an intruder—but maybe, somehow, it belonged.

We sat like that for an unknown stretch of time.

Eventually, his breathing slowed beside me.

I turned my head just enough to see it—his eyes closed now, jaw slackening, head tilted back against the cushion. Asleep.

I stared for a moment, letting the quiet settle softly around us.

Then, careful not to wake him, I reached for the throw blanket draped over the other side of the couch and pulled it gently over both of us.

I curled in on myself beside him, knees tucked close, his arm brushing mine, and let my own eyes drift closed.

My fingers twitched, reaching out without thought—and softly brushed a loose curl away from his forehead.

His skin was warm beneath my touch, steady in sleep—something so rare and fragile that I felt my heart twist, caught between fear and a fierce, aching hope.

°°°°°

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