His Christmas Savior

Chapter 1

ODESSA

Some days empty you out until you’re scraped clean, and then there are days that grind what’s left of you into the pavement. This Christmas Eve decided to be both.

Everyone else in the city was wrapped in twinkling lights and holiday celebration, the kind that made shops glow in warm light and families gather close, but not me. I’d spent the evening serving people who got to go home to Christmas trees, laughter, and someone waiting for them. I didn’t have any of that—not a single person to call family, no home-cooked meal, no tradition, no memory that didn’t hurt.

Betty’s Diner wasn’t exactly a place I’d aspire to work because it was exactly a place that had given me a roof above my head and a plate of food barely enough to fill my belly. My stomach didn’t care that it was Christmas Eve. And my college dreams, a future beyond scraping by was still needed every dollar I could squeeze out of these double shifts.

My mother decided to overdose herself with whatever crack she could find when I was five, and she had no choice either on the long list of guys she’d slept with. She left behind no money, no holiday memories, not even a father’s name. After that, I grew up in foster homes, from one place to another. Christmases meant charity events with stale gingerbread and pitying smiles. Kids got adopted, but I didn’t.

By eighteen, I wasn’t wishing for miracles under the mistletoe anymore. I learned to be my own miracle.

But tonight, on Christmas Eve, the sadness sat heavier than usual. I watched couples holding hands over dinner, parents wiping ketchup off their kids’ noses, people laughing as Christmas songs hummed through the speakers. Every damn moment reminded me of what I didn’t have and never really did.

“Odessa!” Mr. Hubert's bark snapped through my thoughts like a slap. His voice cut through the faint sound of “Silent Night” playing on the radio.

I didn’t need to turn around to know he was seething. “How many damn times do I need to tell you to wipe the tables properly?”

I wanted to tell him that I already did, but correcting him was like arguing with a wall. It was loud, pointless and painful.

“I’ll take care of it,” I muttered.

He brushed past me, shoving his shoulder into mine with enough force, and it was not the first time. Asshole.

Betty’s was decorated with cheap red garlands and a dusty plastic wreath, but even the fake holiday cheer couldn’t soften Hubert's favourite pastime: reminding us that he was the bloody boss we could not get rid of. I tolerated him only because the salary was paying my rent.

By closing time, the rest of the staff had run off to their families, to their homes, leaving me behind to clean up the mess. Christmas Eve or not, someone always got stuck picking up the pieces.

And of course, I was that someone.

Hubert tossed a wrinkled receipt at me. “You did not do the inventory of the last order.”

“Carmen did—”

He smirked, and that expression always felt like grime under my skin. “You calling me a liar, sweetheart?”

“No,” I forced out.

“I didn’t think so. You don’t leave until it’s done.”

As he left, the bells over the door jingled, and the cheerful sound felt like mockery. The lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were tired too. My chest tightened with the kind of loneliness that only holidays could slap you with.

When I finally walked out, it was well past midnight. Technically, Christmas now, but the streets still held the hush of Christmas Eve’s last breath. Snowflakes drifted in lazy patterns, melting on my coat before they could settle. My breath puffed out in cloudy bursts, and the cold bit into my bones.

Walking back home, I could see silhouettes of families inside with gifts under trees, people hugging, and kids jumping around. And something in me twisted, sharp and old. I didn’t have a single place like that to return to. No one was waiting up for me, and no one cared whether I made it home.

Sighing, I tugged my jacket tighter and kept walking, boots crunching over thin patches of snow. After ten minutes of walking, something caught my eye, and it was unusual. At first, just a shape slumped near a lamppost, half in the gutter, half in the yellow glow. It could’ve been a drunkard sleeping it off after too much holiday spirit, or an animal, maybe, but then he moved.

A low sound that crawled under my skin like danger.

Oh hell.

I froze as I neared. Christmas Eve or not, I knew better than to approach anything bleeding human on the street, especially when the neighbourhood was questionable. My instincts screamed at me to turn around, go home, wrap myself in my thin blanket, and pretend I didn’t see a thing.

But I stepped closer anyway and slouched down.

The blood hit me first as it was dark, thick, and spreading across his shirt. He was slumped forward, hair falling across a face that looked like it had been carved from marble. Sharp angles, and ridiculously handsome in a way that felt dangerous. Even half-dead, he looked like trouble sculpted into human form.

My trembling finger hovered over the emergency call button when his eyes snapped open. It was black, cold and pinned me in place.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

“Don’t what?” I stammered.

“No cops. No hospital.”

He extended his hand, and I took it, helping him to stand.

“No hospital,” he commanded again, despite soaking in blood.

“You’re bleeding out,” I hissed, balancing his weight. “I can’t fix that.”

“I just need first aid,” he pressed.

God, I should’ve walked away. Especially tonight, when all I wanted was a warm bed and a moment of peace to forget how painfully alone I felt on a night meant for families.

But instead, I agreed to his demand.

Muttering curses under my breath, I hauled his arm around my shoulders. He was heavy, too big, and bleeding too much. My knees almost buckled under his weight.

We limped to the curb. I flagged down a cab, tossing cash into the driver’s hand before he could argue.

“12th Acorn Street,” I snapped.

The cab driver looked at the bloodied man slumped against me, but thankfully did not utter a single word. I guess the cash helped at that point.

My dingy apartment with its usual charm, filled with cracked walls and flickering lights, gave everything a sickly glow, and the lingering chill of a place with bad insulation.

There was no Christmas tree or lights, and it seemed like a perfect place to bring a bleeding stranger, right?

I managed to lower him onto my couch. He hit it hard, letting out a sound that was more anger than pain, like he was offended by his own weakness.

I stood there for a second, staring at this mess I’d dragged into my life on Christmas Eve. “I will get the first aid,” I muttered, and then I rushed to the bathroom, fumbling for the first aid kit I rarely used.

Christmas Eve, and here I was, trying to patch a bleeding stranger.

Some holiday it was.