Eva tore down the hospital halls, heart pounding wild and desperate. If anyone asked, she probably couldn't have said if she was running towards something or away from it. All she knew was the world looked like a smear of white and sorrow, and her legs threatened to buckle before she even reached the room.
She crashed against her father's door and just collapsed, sobs wrenching out of her, raw and useless. "Father... Father, please, don't leave me," she begged, but the words just splintered in the stillness.
Even as the silence crowded in, her dad's last words stuck with her. "Everything will be alright, Eva. Never give up." He'd sounded so sure—like he really believed it. That was his thing: steadiness, even at the worst of times.
The days after felt endless, but somehow she kept surviving. Not like those cinematic movie moments, either—just the painful, stubborn grind of staying alive. She went back to work and didn't look back. Most people couldn't imagine her job. She was a stunt double, the battered body behind those jaw-dropping action scenes that everyone loved but nobody remembered. Good money if you managed not to end up in the hospital—again.
She shared a tiny apartment with her best friend, Sandra, who was the polar opposite of Eva in every way. Sandra thrived in corporate chaos by day and somehow still found patience for Eva's rough edges. She'd been there through everything. The losses. The crowded silences.
"Wake up! Eva, you're late! Move it, now!" Sandra was relentless with the banging.
Eva shot up, glancing at the clock. Crap. She scrambled around, yanking on her gear, then bolted for the door with her helmet—barely listening to Sandra's "Good luck!" as she tore out.
Her bike was freedom. She leaned into the speed, splitting through morning traffic. Just as she thought she might actually make it, the world jerked sideways—blinding impact, metal screaming. Eva slammed into a luxury sedan and skidded across the asphalt, breath knocked clean out of her.
Her head spun and her voice sounded small. "God… I can't move my hand…" Then, everything slipped away except for a frantic voice breaking through: "Are you okay? I'm so sorry…"
She woke up hours later, the sharp hospital smell hitting her first. Her body protested, but especially her hand. Sandra hovered nearby, eyes swollen and tired.
"Thank God you're awake! Eva, I… I don't know what I'd do if—"
"I'm okay, really," Eva lied, even though every breath said otherwise.
Then the door opened. In walked a guy who seemed too polished for a hospital room. Tall, sharp lines, black hair so perfect it was almost funny. Kevin.
He crossed the room quietly, holding a bunch of lilies like he'd just stepped out of a movie. "I'm really sorry about the accident," he said, voice calm and deep. He left the flowers, nodded once, then disappeared.
Sandra's eyes went wide. "Did you see him? He's straight out of a drama."
Eva scowled, adjusting her bandaged arm. "His face isn't helping me heal. If he really cared, maybe he could fix my bike too."
A week later, she was back on set. Her hand wasn't healed—far from it. She hid it under a thick glove and told herself she'd be fine.
"Action!" the director shouted.
Eva ran for the rooftop. Everything hinged on the jump and the safety rope. But as she leapt, pain sliced through her hand and her fingers just... gave out. Gravity took over. She was falling, and part of her almost didn't care.
Except she didn't hit the ground. Something—someone—caught her. Heavy arms, steady, and a scent that filled her lungs with adrenaline and confusion.
She opened her eyes, and it was Kevin again. His expression was unreadable, but his grip wasn't. He didn't bother with explanations. The set had gone dead silent around them.
"I told you to recover, not risk your life," Kevin said, his voice low and serious. "From now on, you're with me. That's it."
She barely registered the crew's shock as he lifted her like she weighed nothing and carried her off the set toward his black sedan. The movie wasn't the only thing with a plot twist, apparently.