Amid the bruises, banter and a gash in need of stitching, one thing becomes painfully clear: 
The line between danger and desire isn’t just thin—it’s threaded.

➤ PARKING CRIMES & BATTLE SCARS 
[9:44 PM — Handover Street Adjacent]

Kade’s car was two blocks down, parked illegally against a NO PARKING sign like it had a personal grudge against city ordinances.
It practically shouted privilege, a rich boy exception in neon letters.

Of course it did.

He fumbled with his keys; his usual self-assured swagger bent into a grimace as he slouched against the doorframe.

 For a moment, he didn’t look like the untouchable billionaire playboy he usually pretended to be. He just looked... human. Like some oversized kid who’d scrapped his knees and was trying to act tough about it.

I stepped in before the keys could hit the ground, yanking the passenger door open.

“First aid kit’s in the trunk,” he muttered, sinking into the driver’s seat with a sharp intake of breath that betrayed how much pain he was in.

I went around the back, popping open the trunk.
Inside, I found a military-grade med kit—because of course—alongside a gym bag that carried the expensive tang of sweat and overpriced deodorant.
Naturally, there was also a bottle of scotch lying there that could probably pay off my months’ rent.

Classy.

Grabbing the med kit, I returned and slid into the car, settling myself into the tiny space between his knees as he leaned back in the seat, defeated by pain and gravity.

“Lift your shirt, Kade.”

A beat of silence. Then, a knowing curve lifted the corner of his mouth.
His voice, rough as gravel, broke the quiet: "Didn't realize the night was getting so promising. Usually, I’d buy the girl dinner first."

Cynic Kyra: Say one more thing, Sterling, and I’ll disinfect your mouth with rubbing alcohol.

I didn’t rise to meet his grin. "Lift. Or I leave," I shot back flatly.

A muscle jumped in his cheek. This time, no quips.
He obeyed, hissing through clenched teeth as he peeled up his shirt with slow precision, revealing an angry web of bruises on his ribs and a gash near his hip screamed stitches more than sympathy. The steel pipe hadn’t been forgiving.

I told myself to stay professional, to focus solely on the rising swell of bruises hidden beneath the fabric and definitely not on the way his abs flexed.

Ignoring aesthetic interruptions like abs carved by Michelangelo’s rebel phase, I tugged gloves on while dousing cotton pads with antiseptic so fiercely I might’ve dented the bottle.

Cynic Kyra: Can't deny. Those abs look like it could grade cheese.

✦✦✦

➤ EMERGENCY ROMANCE 
[9:46 PM — Handover Street Adjacent]

When the antiseptic made contact, Kade’s whole body tensed under my touch.  

“Okay, that looks worse than it feels,” he rasped.

The sharp tang of antiseptic filled the car’s cabin, mixing with soft notes of sandalwood that clung to his skin—expensive cologne paired with an even more expensive ego.

Still, there was something unexpectedly raw in how quiet he remained beneath my hands, taking every sharp sting like penance. 

His skin warmed beneath my touch—a heat I had no business noticing but couldn’t ignore.

He hissed and clenched his jaw as I cleaned the wound.
Foam bubbled along bloodied edges, red seeping up again almost instantly.
Pressing fresh gauze to stem the flow, I counted seconds under my breath until it slowed enough for stitching.

“Correction,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “Feels exactly as bad as it looks.”

His wit hadn’t abandoned him yet, even as beads of sweat formed across his brow.
He clung to some fractured version of composure.

“Maybe don’t throw yourself into dangerous situations next time,” I suggested bluntly, pulling back the gauze. The bleeding had slowed, but the laceration demanded stitches.

“I wasn’t throwing myself,” he protested weakly. "I was intervening."

I threaded the needle, glancing at him before my focus narrowed on the first suture. "Intervening—with a Rolex and a wallet practically begging to be stolen? Bold strategy.”

His laughter came easily, genuine even, until it fractured into a wince sharp enough to make me tense reflexively. Yet somehow, Kade's infuriating charm remained etched on his features, a stubborn defiance in his eyes.

"You do this often?" he asked after some time passed.

"Tend to reckless billionaires? No."

His fingers curled around the leather seat, betraying tension, but he held his composure.

"You know what I mean." His voice dropped, rough enough to nearly make my fingers stall mid-motion.

I didn’t answer right away. I worked quickly, tying off each suture with practiced tugs.

"I know how to handle myself," I said at last.

“You fight like someone trained. Military? MMA? Or what—secret assassin school?”

“Maybe I binge action movies and take notes.”

"Right," he teased, a challenging glint in his eyes. “And I moonlight as a magician."

Cynic Kyra: Don’t laugh. Don’t melt. Don’t acknowledge the way his voice is doing that gravelly thing.

Layering on antibiotic ointment over the stitches, I pressed a sterile pad into place and secured it tightly with tape.

"You’re different, you know," he said softly. The casual remark seemed heavier than the space around us could hold.

"The women I usually meet... don’t just show up out of nowhere to rescue me."

"And they usually wouldn’t need to," I countered evenly.

"Exactly," Kade muttered, his voice distant and low in a way that snagged my attention. "They always want something. But you... you don’t."

That one landed differently. His voice was quiet, unguarded. Like he was trying to pin something about me he couldn’t name yet.

And honestly? That unsettled me more than it should have.

Because if he already thought of me that way... it meant he was inching closer than I had ever planned on letting him.

Cynic Kyra: Don’t let that mean something. It’s just a line. Nothing more.