I was a mess. My thoughts were all jumbled, swirling around the fact that I had just reached out to Sam—that Sam—and he was actually coming. I hadn't seen him in over a year, maybe more. The last time our paths crossed, it was in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of town and well, it didn't end great.

When we first met, we were both running from something—or maybe we were running to each other. It was hard to tell back then. Our connection wasn't something I could ever label. Mates? Sure, on a good day. But most days, we were just...convenient. No strings, no promises. Just this raw, untethered energy that found its release when we were together.

I'd never deleted him from my contacts, but when I rang the number he used back then I didn't even know if it would still work—if he'd changed his number since or blocked mine. Hell, I didn't even expect him to pick up. But when his voice came through the line, calm and familiar, I felt something clench in my chest. Relief? Maybe. Or just old habits dying hard.

"He's nearly here," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else as I eyed the brief text he'd sent me to let me know he was nearby.

Cillian slipped in and out of awareness, and Roxy was pacing the small space like a caged animal, her eyes flicking between Cillian and the door. She hadn't said much since I got off the phone, but I could tell all this waiting around was eating at her.

Then there was a knock at the door—three short taps, just like we agreed on. My pulse quickened, and I forced myself to take a breath before crossing the room to let him in.

Sam stepped inside, and for a moment, I was struck by how much he hadn't changed. The same messy brown hair, the same sharp but gentle eyes that missed nothing, and the same dumb crooked grin that always seemed to say: I know what you're thinking, and I'm thinking it too.

Yeah, that's Sam. The wannabe doctor who lost his licence the last time he did me a favour. I don't have a clue why he'd even picked up my call and that made me nervous. I don't get nervous. Not usually, anyway. But lately, with all this shit I'd been dragged into, I'd been a bit of a nervous wreck.

"It's been a while." Hearing him in person rather than the crackle of his voice over the phone was more than I'd prepared myself for.

"Yeah," I replied, "Thanks for coming."

"You know me, I love putting my skills to use in a rundown crack den." He sighed with a small roll of his eyes, but I knew that look—he was worried. 

When his eyes landed on Cillian, who was barely conscious and still sprawled out on a mattress that looked as though it was feeding the germs into his wound, his expression shifted from teasing to focused in an instant. He moved past me and knelt at the side of his patient, opening the bag he'd brought with him as he began to pull out medical supplies.

"Tell me what happened," he said, pushing aside the conversation we were sure to have later.

"It's a gunshot wound," Roxy explained. "We've done what we could, but the infection..."

He nodded, already assessing the damage. "This is bad, Charlie. You're lucky you got to me when you did."

As Sam worked, I couldn't help but watch him. The way he moved, so precise and controlled, reminded me of all those nights we spent together, both of us pretending we weren't more than what we were.

Over the years, he had patched me up more times than I can count. It was how we met, actually. I was young—a kid still, really—and had a bad experience with a customer down the back of an alley. If Sam hadn't walked by when he did—this budding med student on a night out with his mates—I don't know what would have happened.

What I do know is that he probably wasn't expecting to take someone home just so that he could patch them up.

The memories of that night clung to the edges of my thoughts as I watched Sam work on Cillian, his delicate hands moving with the same efficiency that had saved my skin all those years ago.

It had been so long, but the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the quiet focus in his movements—it was like no time had passed at all. Except now, everything was different. I'd grown into the shoes life had handed me, embracing my lot without the fantasy that there could ever be anything more.

Sam lifted the bandages, wincing slightly as he examined the wound. His fingers, always ever so gentle, hovered over Cillian's skin, careful not to touch more than he needed to. "He's septic," Sam muttered, half to himself, half to us. "Have you given him any anti-biotics?"

"Just what I could get up the shops," I admitted. "I know it isn't enough, but it's the best we could do."

Sam sighed. "I've got some in my bag, but he'll need more soon."

"How long does he have?" Roxy asked. Her voice was tight, almost strained. I glanced at her, and saw that her pacing had finally stopped. She was rooted now, her eyes locked on Cillian. She was worried, clearly more than she wanted to let on, and the strain was starting to show in the tight lines of her face, the way her hands kept clenching and unclenching at her sides.

"A few hours. Maybe less if we don't get his fever down. If we're lucky, he'll make it through the night."

I shouldn't have cared. I didn't know this guy, not really. Cillian was just a name to a face that I had reluctantly rescued when I should have turned tail and ran. Yet the room still felt like it had shrunk with that news, the walls trapping us in under this massive weight.

My gaze shifted to Roxy, who was still staring at Cillian, her jaw tight. She must've felt it too, the way everything fell into place against us. Like it or not, she was right. We needed Cillian. Without him, we were dead—or worse.

"We need to get him to my clinic." Sam's voice lulled me back to my senses, his calmness easing my rising panic.

I frowned. "You have a clinic? But you—"

"I know," he said softly, the weight of the words lingering in the air—the weight of our unspoken past. His voice had this subtle, measured tone, like he was trying to keep something heavy from spilling out. "I know. It's not exactly legal, but I help people on the streets when they've got nowhere else they can go."

I swallowed hard. People like me. That's what he meant.

He knew the streets because I knew the streets, knew what it was like to scrape by on nothing but instinct and luck. He'd seen enough people fall through the cracks, people like me, who'd had nowhere left to run but down. The kind of life that doesn't ask your permission before it takes everything from you—your home, your family, your fucking pride.

It's not something I want to remember right now. Not something I want to remember at all. The years I'd spent on my own after being tossed aside by my own parents before I'd even grown a single fucking hair on my chin. What I'd done to survive on my own without them, selling myself just to afford a decent meal. Living in places like this just to keep a roof over my head.

All of this for one sin. One single fucking crime against God. Just because their dumb holy book didn't agree with people like me.

I've been on my own for years now, dodging the law and, when I had to, dodging worse. You get used to it, after a while, living in the spaces other people forget exist. And Sam—he was always there, somehow. Not as a constant, but a comforting shadow that showed up when I most needed it.

He glanced up from Cillian, the briefest flicker of something passing between us. We'd never talked about it, not in detail. It was just... understood. He had a decent life ahead of him before I went and fucked even that up. Now, like me, he knew how hard it was to crawl out from that gutter, if you ever did. Maybe that's why he came, despite everything.

Roxy shifted next to me. She didn't know about Sam, didn't know the depths I'd gone to survive before I met her. She just thought I was a whore with too many secrets, and she wasn't wrong. But I wasn't ready for her to know just how far I'd fallen before I clawed my way to this mess of a situation we were in now.

I cleared my throat, pushing the thoughts aside. "So, your clinic—it's safe? You can treat him there?"

"As safe as it can be," Sam said, his focus back on Cillian, hands moving with steady precision. "No one asks questions, but it's not exactly equipped for major surgery. Still, I can do more for him there than here. We'll need to move him soon, though. The infection's bad."

I nodded, my gaze drifting to Cillian's still form. "We'll figure it out."

But deep down, I wasn't sure. Nothing ever came easy on the streets, and moving him was going to be a gamble. One wrong move and this whole thing would blow up in our faces.