Anyone would panic at what you just did. You accidentally shot a man who tried to help you, and now he's bleeding to death --who wouldn't panic?

But you're not just anyone, now, weren't you?

Old instincts kicked in and you immediately knelt beside him, checking the wound, and his pulse. Thank God that there was a pulse, albeit a weak one. The bullet went straight through his chest, so you laid him to the side, so he won't cause any bloodstains on the sidewalk. You immediately looked for the bullet, and you found it by the bushes. You took it and kept it in your pocket, as to avoid evidence if the time comes. You went back to the man and using your phone, you turned on the flashlight, opened his closed eye, and pointed the light at his eye. You sighed in relief as his pupil shrunk immediately.

"Good," you muttered to yourself, and taking off the plaid polo you wore. Your white tank top did nothing to shield you from the cold night wind, but the life of another person was in your hands --complaining can come later. You wrapped it around the man's torso, keeping pressure on the wound on his chest. You sat him up, hung his limp arm around your neck while you wrapped your other arm around his waist, and lifted him up. You were used to lifting heavy things, thanks to your childhood, so lifting a huge man like him was a walk in the park. Your apartment block was just a street away, and you half dragged, half carried him there. Walking to your apartment building was easy, but the stairs were hell. You couldn't carry him up, so instead, you grabbed him from under his arms and dragged him all the way to the fourth floor. You made sure that his torso did not touch the ground, as not to leave any bloodstains, and you were sweating and panting heavily by the time you reached your floor. You wrapped your arm around his waist again and lifted him up, bringing him inside your apartment. You dropped him on your bed and unbuttoned his shirt. You checked again if he had a pulse, and surprisingly, he still did. It was odd, for a shot like that would have killed anybody.

You grabbed your med kit in the kitchen and you brought out some gauze, some antiseptic, and medical tape. At the moment, this is the best that you can think of. You didn't know who else could help you except for --

"Jane? Are you there?" you heard a voice outside, and your eyes widened. He could help you, but he can't see what you've done. If the man in your apartment dies, he can become an accomplice, and you can't have that. You grabbed a nearby towel and wiped your bloody hands and went to the door and opened it a bit. There stood Rick, your neighbor and your best friend since you moved into Snydersville. He was about your age, and he was the brainy type of friend. He came from a family that had lived in Snydersville since 1953, and never left it. Being a small town boy, he wanted a taste of the big city. So, he studied medicine for 6 years, but he couldn't take the city life, and moved back to Snydersville.

You slightly opened the door, and peeked behind it. You saw him there, his dark hair tousled, wearing his checkered pajamas and a Star Wars t-shirt. If you were looking for geeky, you were looking at him.

"Rick, what are you doing up so late?" you asked and gave him a small smile.

"I was binge-watching on Riverdale when I heard thuds up here. Are you alright?" He asked, and you gave him a shaky smile.

"Yeah, I'm good," you said, and he raised a brow at you.

"You don't look so good. You look exhausted. Do you need anything?" he asked when suddenly, you heard a groan from your bedroom. He immediately dropped his brow, and he looked at you, trying to deduce whatever it is that happened to you.

"I'm fine, thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, Rick. Good night," you didn't wait for an answer before closing the door, locking it, and rushing back to the bedroom. You looked at the man on your bed, and you saw that he was thrashing on your bed. You quickly got your med kit and straddled him to make him stop. You poured the antiseptic on his wound, and he thrashed so hard that you were pushed off him and you fell on the floor. You immediately straddled him again and covered his wound with gauze. You did the same to his back, and you ended up being thrown to your backside. You could tell that it was gonna hurt tomorrow. Once you managed to clean and dress his wounds, you laid back on your bed and let out an exhausted sigh. You didn't realize that your eyes were slowly closing, leading you to a dreamless night.

~*~

You woke up the next day, with dull light streaming through your curtained windows. You turned to the right and saw the man you shot sleeping beside you. He was breathing evenly now, which you found odd, yet comforting. You groaned as you stood up and went to your bathroom. You looked at yourself and you cringed at your bloodstained clothes. A shower would be the best thing now, you thought. You stepped in the shower, the hot water beating down on your back was nothing to the fear pounding in your heart. You almost killed a man yesterday, and there he was, unconscious on your bed at the moment. Your first instinct was to flee. Start a clean slate again, and start a new life – drive off in your maroon Mitsubishi box-type Lancer and never look back. You've done it before, and it was as easy as pie. However, with this town, it probably won't be as easy. You made a life here in Snydersville. You made friends, and people who you'd dare call family. It would be harder than the previous time. Maybe she can make an arrangement with the man when he wakes up.

"If he wakes up," you told yourself, and you slid down on the bathroom floor and rested your forehead on your knees. This man gave you a lot to think about.

~*~

Come breakfast time, you were still thinking about what to do. You sat on the chair beside the window that overlooked the intersection of your street. The town wasn't as busy as New York, or the other big cities, but it was busy in its own way. You held a mug of coffee on your hand and an untouched plate of pancakes on the other.

'To leave, or not to leave?' You thought, and you sighed, leaning on the glass of your window. You jolted up when the front door swung open, and in came Rick, with a paper bag which smelled like pastries from the local bakeshop. Every Sunday morning, Rick would come in during breakfast and bring you different kinds of breads and pastries from the local bakeshop. There were times that he'd bring you chocolate stuffed croissants, chicken pie that had creamy gravy inside, or cinnamon rolls with tons of frostings. Out of everything, the chicken pie was your favorite, but you didn't tell him that. You didn't want to feel like you were taking advantage of this man's kindness. Because of the shooting fiasco, you completely forgot that it was Sunday, and that Rick was coming over. It was a good thing that you shut the bedroom door. It also didn't look like the man you shot was going to rise anytime soon.

"Mornin'," he greeted, and he flashed his usual boyish smile. In this town, Rick was the tall, dark, and handsome beauty that the small town girls went crazy over. He was smart, lean, tall, had these deep green eyes, and had dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. And his teeth were a perfect set of white pearls. Who wouldn't swoon over him? Maybe it was the incident last night, or maybe it was the thought of leaving town that made you think of Rick in a different way – in a way that made your heart flutter.

"Morning, Rickie," you said, giving him a small smile. You watched him as he removed the carton in the paper bag and slid it across the table towards you. You caught it with your hand, and you immediately knew what he brought you. "Dear Lord, you're a saint, Rickie," you said, opening it and saying a short prayer before devouring half of the pie. You noticed something odd, and you looked up at Rickie, who sat across you, and you caught him staring at you.

"Okay, what's wrong, now?" you asked, and Rickie seemed to be shaken out of his stupor and he stood straighter.

"What? Nothing's wrong." He said, and he stood up to get himself a cup of coffee. You continued to eat your chicken pie, savoring the flavor, but this time, at a slower pace. Rickie sat across you, his fingers fidgeting around the mug of coffee he held, when he spoke.

"Jane, we've known each other for a while, haven't we?" he asked, and you scoffed.

"I think 'a while' is an understatement, Rickie," you said, as you took a sip from your coffee and checked the daily news on your phone.

"Well, whatever. The point is, I've been meaning to ask this for a while now," Rick said, and you hummed for him to continue. "Would you like to go out with me?"

"Rickie, we hang out often -- you don't need to wait for the right moment to ask—" Then you stopped dead in your tracks, realizing what Rick just asked. "Oh shit, this isn't a hangout, isn't it?" you asked and Rick smiled and shook his head no.

"Let me rephrase the question -- would you like to go out on a date with me?" He asked, and you felt lost – lost in his green eyes, lost in the situation you're in. Would you like to go out with him? He was handsome, polite, smart, and you've known each other for a long time. You were about to answer him, when the unexpected happened.

You heard the bedroom door open, the stranger going out of your room wearing only his pants. The gauze that you placed on his chest was gone, and the wound was gone. It was as if you never shot him. You looked at him, your eyes wide, and when you looked back at Rick, he looked equally as shocked.

"Well, good morning," the British baritone voice of the man broke through the silence of the room. You looked back and forth between the man and your best friend. You wanted to find out how on Earth did his wounds heal so fast, and at the same time, she wanted to explain to Rick that it was not what it looked like.

"Oh, shit. I am so sorry," Rick said, standing up, and scrambling away. "I didn't know that she had a boyfriend already, I am so sorry," he said, backing away, and you stood up to go after him.

"Wait, Rickie, it's not what it looks like!" You said, but he was having none of it.

"Look, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I should've guessed last night. I'll see you around, Jane." He said, leaving your apartment without looking back. You shut the door, pressing your forehead to the door and clenching the doorknob tightly. You turned to look at the stranger, who was still standing by your bedroom door. You didn't care if he was British, or handsome, or had a body that looked like it was chiseled by the greatest sculptor alive.

"Are you alright?" You asked, and he shrugged.

"I am, thanks for asking." He said nonchalantly, a smug smirk appearing on his face.

"Good." You said, rushing towards him and landing the hardest punch you can throw on his left cheek.

~*~

Hey, guys !!! I'm back! XD So sorry for the lonv wait. I went to this awesome 4 day summer camp last week, and I was bombarded by family events when I came back. So I wrote this chapter in the middle of the night and was beta'd by the awesome Elle Abel.

So what do you think of this chapter? While I was writing this, it kinda made me wanna eat chicken pie T-T

Anyways, don't mind my cravings XD Leave a review and let me know what you think! :D

~Gabrielle