The Emergency Text
Nana was in the middle of filling out mission reports when her phone exploded with notifications.
**Rafayel:** Miss bodyguard
**Rafayel:** Miss bodyguard I need you
**Rafayel:** This is an emergency
**Rafayel:** A crisis
**Rafayel:** A catastrophe of unprecedented proportions
**Rafayel:** I might not survive the night
**Rafayel:** Tell my art I loved it
She stared at her phone, heart rate spiking. Had there been a Wanderer attack at White Sand Bay? Had someone broken in? Was he actually in danger?
Before she could respond, her phone rang. Thomas.
"Don't panic," Thomas said immediately, which made her panic more. "He's fine. Mostly fine. He's being dramatic."
"What happened?!" Nana was already grabbing her jacket.
"He's in the hospital," Thomas said, and Nana's heart dropped. "But before you freak out—and I cannot stress this enough—he twisted his ankle."
Nana stopped mid-motion. "He... what?"
"Twisted. His. Ankle." Thomas sighed deeply. "Stepped on some wet paintbrushes in his studio, slipped, fell, twisted it. The doctor says it's a mild sprain. But Rafayel is acting like he's been mortally wounded and insists on seeing his bodyguard immediately."
"It's almost midnight," Nana said, glancing at her clock.
"I'm aware. He's in a private room at Linkon General. Room 307. Visiting hours ended two hours ago, but he's been making such a fuss that the nurses are threatening to sedate him if someone doesn't come calm him down."
"This is ridiculous."
"I know."
"He's fine."
"I know."
"It's a twisted ankle."
"I *know*." Thomas sounded exhausted. "But he wants *you*, specifically, and won't stop asking for his 'Miss Bodyguard' until you arrive. So if you could possibly—"
"I'm on my way," Nana sighed, already heading for the door.
"You're a saint," Thomas said. "I'll text you if he does anything else dramatic before you arrive. Which he will. Because he's Rafayel."
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🐚🐚🐚
Nana stopped at the only bakery still open at this hour—a 24-hour place near her apartment that specialized in comfort food—and grabbed an assortment of pastries. If she was going to deal with a dramatic artist at midnight, she was going to need bribes.
Linkon General was quiet at this hour, most of the visitors long gone. The night nurse at the desk took one look at Nana's Hunter Association badge and waved her through with a sympathetic expression that suggested she'd dealt with Rafayel already.
"Room 307," the nurse said. "Good luck."
"Is he really that bad?" Nana asked.
"He's asked for ice chips twelve times, claimed his ankle was 'definitely broken' three times despite X-rays proving otherwise, tried to discharge himself twice, cried once—actual tears that turned into little pink pearls which was *very* weird—and has been texting someone non-stop for the last hour."
*The tears turning to pearls should have been her first clue*, Nana would think later. *But at the time, she was too busy being exasperated to connect the dots.*
"I'm so sorry," Nana said.
"Just make him stop," the nurse pleaded. "The other patients are complaining about the dramatic sighing."
Nana pushed open the door to room 307 and found exactly what she'd expected: Rafayel sprawled in the hospital bed like a Victorian maiden dying of consumption, one arm dramatically flung across his forehead, his injured ankle elevated and wrapped in what looked like excessive amounts of bandaging.
"Oh, you're here!" Thomas stood up from the chair by the window, relief flooding his face. "Thank god. He's been insufferable."
"I heard that," Rafayel said weakly, not moving. "And I'm not insufferable. I'm injured. Gravely injured. Potentially fatally."
"The doctor said it's a mild sprain," Thomas said flatly.
"Doctors don't understand the delicate constitution of artists," Rafayel countered, still not opening his eyes. "We feel pain more acutely. It's because we're sensitive souls."
Nana set down her bag of pastries and walked over to the bed. "Rafayel. Open your eyes."
"I can't," he said mournfully. "The pain is too great. The world is going dark. Tell my paintings I loved them. Tell the ocean I'll miss it. Tell my bodyguard that she was the best bodyguard a dying artist could ask for—"
"Rafayel, I swear to god, if you don't open your eyes right now I'm leaving."
His eyes snapped open immediately. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Rafayel's expression shifted into something sheepish. "You brought pastries."
"I brought pastries," Nana confirmed. "Because Thomas said you were in the hospital and I was worried. But now I'm finding out it's a *twisted ankle* and you're being dramatic."
"It really hurts," Rafayel said, a bit defensively.
"I'm sure it does. But you're not dying."
"How do you know? I could be dying. People die from twisted ankles all the time."
"No they don't," Thomas interjected.
"They could," Rafayel insisted. "Medical anomalies happen."
Nana looked at Thomas. "Has he been like this the entire time?"
"Since the moment we arrived," Thomas confirmed. "The doctor barely kept a straight face during the examination. I think there's a pool among the nurses about what he'll claim is wrong with him next."
"I heard that too," Rafayel said. "And it's not a claim if it's real. My ankle is genuinely injured. The doctor confirmed it."
"The doctor confirmed a mild sprain that will heal in a few days with rest," Thomas corrected.
"A few days?!" Rafayel said this like it was a death sentence. "I have an exhibition next month! I have three commissions due! I have shells to collect and—"
"And you'll be fine by tomorrow, probably," Thomas finished. "The doctor said you can go home in the morning after they make sure there's no complications. Which there won't be. Because it's a twisted ankle."
Rafayel pouted. Actually pouted. Like a child denied dessert.
*He's ridiculous*, Nana thought. *Absolutely ridiculous.*
*Why do I find this so endearing?*
"I'm going to get coffee," Thomas announced, grabbing his coat. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. Try not to let him convince you he's dying."
"No promises," Nana said.
Thomas left, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. More intimate. Just her and Rafayel and the soft beeping of medical equipment.
"You really came," Rafayel said quietly, his theatrical persona dropping slightly. "At midnight. You really came."
"Of course I came," Nana said, pulling up the chair Thomas had vacated. "You're my client. It's my job to—"
"Is that the only reason?" Rafayel interrupted. "Because I'm your client?"
Nana paused, caught off guard by the genuine vulnerability in his voice. "I... no. Not just that. I was worried. When Thomas called and said you were in the hospital, I thought—" She stopped, swallowed. "I thought something bad had happened. To you. And I didn't like that feeling."
Something soft and warm bloomed in Rafayel's expression. "You were worried about me."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. It's already there. Taking up residence. Throwing a party."
"You're impossible."
"And yet you brought pastries."
"I brought pastries," Nana admitted. "Which you don't deserve, by the way. Texting me twelve times that you might not survive the night when it's a twisted ankle? That's emotional terrorism, Rafayel."
"I was in pain!" he protested. "And scared! And alone in a hospital room with only Thomas for company—no offense to Thomas—and I just wanted to see you."
*There it was again*, Nana thought. *That sincerity. That genuineness underneath all the drama. That's the part that gets me every time.*
"Well I'm here now," she said, opening the bag of pastries. "And since you're clearly not actually dying, you can eat something. Have you eaten?"
"Hospital food," Rafayel said with a theatrical shudder. "It was gray. Nana. *Gray*. Food shouldn't be gray."
"Then you'll love these." She pulled out a chocolate croissant. "Still warm. The bakery near my place makes them fresh every few hours."
Rafayel's eyes lit up. "You went to trouble."
"I went to a bakery. That's not trouble."
"You went to a bakery at midnight because I was in the hospital," Rafayel corrected. "That's trouble. That's you caring."
"Eat your croissant and stop psychoanalyzing me."
Rafayel reached for the pastry, then winced dramatically. "Ow."
"Your ankle is injured, not your arm," Nana pointed out.
"But the pain radiates," Rafayel insisted. "Up my leg, through my torso, into my arms. It's all connected. The body is a temple."
"You're full of it."
"I'm full of pain," he corrected. Then, with the saddest expression: "I don't think I can feed myself. The trauma of the fall has affected my coordination."
"Rafayel—"
"Please?" He looked at her with those twilight eyes, and damn it, that shouldn't work. That shouldn't be allowed to work.
But it did.
"Fine," Nana sighed, breaking off a piece of croissant. "But only because arguing with you takes more energy than just doing it."
She held the piece up to his mouth, and Rafayel took it with a satisfied smile, chewing slowly. "Delicious."
"Of course it is. It's chocolate."
"No, it's delicious because you're feeding it to me," Rafayel said. "Food tastes better when someone you care about gives it to you."
"Someone you care about?" Nana raised an eyebrow. "We've known each other two weeks."
"Long enough," Rafayel said simply, taking another piece she offered. "Sometimes you just know. You meet someone and you think, 'yes, this person. This person is important. This person is going to matter.'"
*You have no idea how much*, he didn't say. *You mattered three hundred years ago. You mattered a hundred years before that. You'll matter a hundred years from now. You'll always matter.*
"You're very philosophical for someone who fake-died on a beach yesterday," Nana said, but her voice was soft.
"I contain multitudes," Rafayel said, echoing his words from days before. "And depth. And feelings. Many feelings. Especially about my very caring bodyguard who brought me pastries at midnight."
"Stop trying to make me blush."
"Am I succeeding?"
"No."
"Liar." But he was smiling, that genuine smile that made his whole face light up. "Your ears are pink."
Nana's hands flew to her ears. "They are not!"
"They absolutely are. It's adorable."
"I'm going to take these pastries back."
"No! I'm injured! You can't take food from an injured person! That's cruel!"
They continued like this—Nana feeding him pastries while he made increasingly ridiculous claims about his injury—until the doctor came in for evening rounds.
"Mr. Rafayel," the doctor said, trying very hard not to smile. "How are we feeling?"
"Terrible," Rafayel said immediately. "Weak. Faint. Probably dying."
"The X-rays show a mild ankle sprain," the doctor said, pulling up charts on a tablet. "No fracture, no severe ligament damage. Rest, ice, elevation for a few days and you'll be fine."
"Are you sure?" Rafayel asked. "It feels broken."
"I'm sure. I've been a doctor for fifteen years."
"What if you missed something? What if there's internal damage that doesn't show on X-rays? What if—"
"Rafayel," Nana interrupted. "Accept that you're going to be fine."
He pouted but subsided. The doctor made some notes, promised to discharge him in the morning, and left with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
"He was laughing at me," Rafayel said.
"Everyone's laughing at you," Nana agreed. "Because you're being ridiculous."
"I'm being cautious," Rafayel corrected. Then, more quietly: "And maybe I'm milking it a little bit."
"A little bit?"
"Okay, a lot. But in my defense—" He caught her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "—it's the only way I get to spend time with you outside of the bodyguard job. And that ends in a few days. So if I have to fake being on death's door to see you, I'll fake being on death's door."
Nana's breath caught. "You don't have to fake being injured to see me."
"Don't I?" Rafayel's voice was soft. "Once the investigation ends, once I've found all my suppliers and fixed the contamination issue, you go back to your missions. I go back to my paintings. We said we'd get bubble tea sometime, but 'sometime' has a way of becoming 'never.'"
"It won't," Nana said firmly. "I meant it. When I said we'd still see each other. I meant it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Say it again."
"Rafayel—"
"Please?" And there were those eyes again, and damn it, she was weak.
"I promise," Nana said clearly. "After this job ends, we'll still see each other. Bubble tea. Shell collecting. Whatever you want."
"Whatever I want?" Rafayel perked up. "Can we go to the aquarium? I want to take you to the aquarium."
"Why the aquarium?"
*Because I want to show you my world*, Rafayel thought. *Want to see your face when you see the ocean life that used to be mine. Want to share that part of me with you, even if you don't know it's mine to share.*
"Because fish are neat," he said aloud. "And you painted a fish. So clearly you have an appreciation for aquatic life."
"I painted a blob with fins."
"A beautiful blob with fins," Rafayel corrected. "Which is still hanging in my room, by the way. Right where I can see it first thing when I wake up."
"You're sentimental."
"About the things that matter, yes."
The mark on Nana's neck pulsed warm, and Rafayel's chest answered. Neither mentioned it.
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🐚🐚🐚
After Thomas returned (with coffee and a knowing look at their joined hands), Nana noticed Rafayel shifting uncomfortably.
"Is your ankle bothering you?" she asked.
"It's a bit stiff," he admitted. "The doctor said massage might help with circulation."
"Did the doctor actually say that, or are you making it up?" Thomas asked suspiciously.
"He implied it," Rafayel said. "With his eyes. Very clearly."
"That's not how medical advice works."
"Thomas, I need you to go get me... something," Rafayel said.
"What something?"
"Any something. A thing. That thing you were going to get."
"I wasn't going to get anything."
"Well now you are," Rafayel said pointedly, looking between Thomas and Nana. "That thing. From that place. You know the one."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "You're not subtle."
"I'm incredibly subtle."
"You're really not." But Thomas stood anyway. "I'll be in the cafeteria. Try not to do anything that'll get Miss Wang banned from the hospital."
After he left, Nana shook her head. "You're shameless."
"I'm efficient," Rafayel corrected. "And my ankle really is stiff. The doctor did mention that gentle movement and massage would help prevent it from getting too swollen."
"Did he really?"
"He really did! I'm not making that up! This time!"
Nana studied him, trying to determine if this was another ploy. But there was genuine discomfort in his expression, and the ankle did look slightly swollen despite the ice and elevation.
"Fine," she said, moving to the end of the bed. "But if you make this weird, I'm stopping."
"I would never make this weird," Rafayel said, which was probably a lie.
Nana carefully unwrapped some of the bandaging, exposing his ankle. It was bruised—purple and yellow—and definitely swollen, but not as bad as his dramatics had suggested.
She started with gentle pressure, working around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. Rafayel winced initially, then gradually relaxed.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much better," he admitted. "You're good at this."
"Hunter training includes field medicine. Sometimes we have to treat sprains and minor injuries between missions."
"Still. You're gentle. Careful." His voice had taken on a drowsy quality. "Thank you."
They were quiet for a while, Nana working on his ankle while Rafayel watched her with half-lidded eyes. The beeping of monitors provided a gentle rhythm, and outside the window, Linkon City sparkled with late-night lights.
"Nana?" Rafayel said softly.
"Mm?"
"I wasn't lying. Earlier. When I said I wanted to see you. That's why I called. Not because I needed a bodyguard. Just because I... wanted you here."
Nana's hands stilled. "Rafayel—"
"I know it's weird," he continued. "We barely know each other. Two weeks. That's nothing. But somehow it feels like more. Like we've known each other longer. Like—" He stopped, searching for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Like you're someone I was always going to meet. Does that sound insane?"
"A little," Nana admitted. "But I... I feel it too. That sense of knowing you. Of this being right, somehow."
*You do?* Rafayel's heart leaped. *You feel it? Even without the memories?*
"Really?" he asked.
"Really." She resumed the massage, her touch careful. "I don't understand it. But I'm not going to fight it anymore. If the universe wants us to be friends—"
"Friends," Rafayel repeated.
"Or... whatever we are," Nana amended. "Then I'm okay with that. More than okay."
"Me too," Rafayel said softly. "More than okay."
Eventually, visiting hours officially ended. The night nurse came by, giving Nana a pointed look that suggested she'd been lenient enough.
"I have to go," Nana said reluctantly. "I have a mission tomorrow morning."
"Don't go," Rafayel said immediately, catching her hand. "Stay. Just a bit longer."
"Rafayel, it's almost 1 AM."
"So? Time is a construct. Visiting hours are a construct. Rules are made to be broken."
"I don't think the hospital agrees with that philosophy."
"Miss Bodyguard," Rafayel said, pulling out his most pitiful expression. "I'm gravely injured. Alone in a hospital room. Vulnerable. What if something happens in the night? What if my ankle gets worse? What if I need emergency croissant delivery?"
"You have Thomas."
"Thomas went home. The man needs sleep. Unlike me, who might never sleep again due to the *trauma* of my injury."
"You're unbelievable."
"Please?" He tugged her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles again. "Just a few more minutes?"
Nana knew she should say no. Should go home, get sleep, prepare for tomorrow's mission. Should maintain professional boundaries and not let herself get pulled deeper into whatever this was with Rafayel.
But when he looked at her like that—genuine and vulnerable and hopeful—she couldn't.
"Ten minutes," she said firmly. "Then I really have to go."
"Twenty?"
"Ten."
"Fifteen?"
"You're negotiating with the wrong person. I fight Wanderers for a living. You think you can out-stubborn me?"
Rafayel considered this. "Fair point. Ten minutes it is."
They sat in comfortable silence for those ten minutes, hands still linked, neither quite willing to break the contact. Rafayel traced patterns on her palm with his thumb—absent-minded, soothing.
*Just a bit longer*, he thought. *Just let me have a bit longer with her. Tomorrow she goes back to fighting Wanderers. Goes back to danger. Goes back to a world where I can't protect her.*
*Tonight, she's here. Safe. With me.*
*That has to be enough.*
When the ten minutes were up, Nana reluctantly stood. "I really do have to go now."
"I know." Rafayel didn't release her hand immediately. "You'll visit tomorrow? You promised."
"I promised," Nana confirmed. "After my mission. I'll come straight here."
"And stay longer?" His voice was almost childlike in its hope.
"And stay longer," she agreed.
"How much longer?"
"Rafayel—"
"An hour? Two hours? The whole evening? We could watch terrible hospital TV together and you could feed me more pastries and—"
"As long as I can," Nana interrupted, but she was smiling. "I'll stay as long as I can. Okay?"
"Okay." Finally, reluctantly, he released her hand. "Be safe. On your mission. Whatever it is."
"I'm always safe."
"You fight monsters for a living. 'Always safe' is a relative term."
"I'll be careful, then."
"Good." Something intense flickered across his face. "Come back. Promise me you'll come back."
*Because she didn't comeback*, he didn't say it. A hundred years ago, she promised to meet me at sunset and she never came back. And I waited. I waited until I thought I'd go mad. I can't—
"I promise," Nana said, her voice soft but certain. "I'll come back. Tomorrow evening. I promise."
Rafayel watched as she gathered her things, as she paused at the door to look back at him one more time.
Their eyes met across the hospital room, and something passed between them—understanding, affection, the beginning of something neither could name but both recognized.
"Goodnight, Rafayel," she said.
"Goodnight, Nana."
She left, and the room felt immediately emptier. Colder. Less alive.Rafayel lay back against his pillows, touching his chest where the mark burned warm and content. Tomorrow she would come back. She'd promised. And unlike last time, this promise would be kept.
He could wait until tomorrow.
He'd waited three hundred years.
What was one more day?
But gods, he thought as sleep finally pulled at him. Every moment apart feels like an eternity now that I've found her again.
Every moment not with her feels wasted.
Come back soon, my beloved.
Come back safe.
And maybe—just maybe—keep falling for me the way I've already fallen for you.
Again.
Always again.
Forever again.
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🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __