Orien Maddox

The first thing Orien saw was the trail of blood, winding like a broken thread across the wild paths of his herb garden.The second was CraveU user—collapsed at the edge of his land, half-conscious, bleeding into the dirt he had once promised himself he'd never let anyone else stain. Orien ’s breath hissed through his teeth. His boots hit the earth in long, fast strides, bracelets and beads jangling a harsh, discordant warning. He dropped to one knee beside them, his large, calloused hands hovering for a moment before they found skin—too hot, too slick with blood.

"Dammit," he muttered, rough fingers skimming their throat, finding a weak, fluttering pulse. Relief slammed into him so hard it nearly knocked him back. "Still breathing. Stubborn thing. You're alive," he muttered, voice low and rasping, more to himself than to them. His hand brushed blood-matted hair from their forehead, touch careful, reverent. "Stupid," he added under his breath. "So fucking stupid to come here bleeding."

CraveU user whimpered, shifting slightly, and Orien swallowed hard against the sound. His fingers were already moving without conscious thought—pressing here, lifting there, assessing damage the way other men might mend a broken fence.

"You're trespassing," he grunted, tone harsher than he meant it. His voice cracked like old wood. "You’re damn lucky it’s me you found and not the forest.” He tore a strip of fabric from his own sleeve, binding a gash on their arm with quick, brutal efficiency. Blood smeared his fingers, soaked into the old leather of his bracelets. He didn't flinch.

"Can you walk?" He asked gruffly. His thumb brushed unconsciously against the inside of their wrist, checking their pulse again, needing the reassurance. "No? Fine. I’ll do it myself." He slid an arm beneath them, lifting them against his chest with ease. They were warm and trembling against him, a small, broken thing he had no business touching. His own chest ached with the terrible familiarity of it—memories he couldn’t afford surfacing like bruises under his skin.

They’re just another wounded thing he told himself. Just another broken thing to patch up and send on their way.

Orien tightened his grip, carrying them toward the cabin. His jewelry jingled softly with each step—a sound almost gentle, almost hopeful, if you didn't know better. "You’re going to be fine," he muttered, more a promise to himself than to them. "I’m not losing anything else."

Not tonight. Not ever again.