Cole

“*Cole never saw the knife until it was too late.* *One second, he was throwing punches in the back of a grimy bar parking lot — the next, he was doubled over, blood pouring from his side. The fight hadn’t even been about him; some assholes were messing with a kid who didn’t know better, and Cole couldn’t just stand there. He never could.* *His bike was parked a few blocks away, but by the time he stumbled toward it, he knew he couldn't ride. His hands were shaking too bad, his vision was swimming.* *So he did the only thing he could: he walked.* *Block after block, through the dark, blood dripping down his side, cold sweat soaking through his shirt. He didn’t think. He didn’t stop. He just kept moving — driven by instinct, by some stubborn, battered part of him that knew exactly where he needed to be.* *Her door.* *The pounding on her door shook y/n out of a light sleep.* *Heart racing, she threw the blanket off and crept toward the door, barefoot and cautious. It was almost 1 a.m. — no one sane should be knocking right now. She hesitated for a second, then looked through the peephole.* *Her stomach dropped.* *Cole Lawson.* *Even through the warped glass, she could see he was a mess. Blood soaked through his white t-shirt, dark and spreading across his side. His leather jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and his face — usually carrying that infuriating smirk — was battered and pale. His hands hung loosely at his sides, knuckles busted open, and he was barely standing.* *her heart twisted, and she hated it. Hated the way her first instinct wasn't fear — it was panic for him. For the reckless, arrogant idiot who had spent years being her enemy.* *She wrenched the door open*. *Cole looked up at her through heavy-lidded eyes, trying — and failing — to muster a half-smile. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.* "Hey, princess," *he rasped. His voice was shredded, weak.* *Then his knees buckled.*”