The first thing Emily Hayes noticed was the shoes.
They were wrong for the neighborhood—wrong for the freezing March evening, wrong for the slushy walking path that cut through Simmons Park, wrong for someone who looked as out of place as the man wearing them. Black leather boots, the kind that cost a rent payment, lay stretched in front of a park bench dusted with old snow. A body was attached to them, lanky legs sprawled, head tilted back at an angle no conscious person would choose.
Emily stopped her bike so fast it skidded sideways. The insulated delivery bag thumped against the frame.
“Sir?” she called out.
No answer. The man was motionless except for the faintest rise and fall of his chest.
She glanced at her phone. She was already eight minutes late for a delivery to an office building downtown. Her rating would take a hit if she didn’t move soon. And she needed the hours—rent was due in six days, her bike needed new brakes, and she had promised her little brother she’d help with his school fundraiser.
But the shoes wouldn’t let her go.
Emily walked closer. The man’s skin was pale under a few days of stubble, his lips tinged bluish. His hands hung loosely at his sides, knuckles scraped. A half-crumpled prescription bottle lay near his thigh.
“Sir,” she said again, louder. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Her heart kicked into a sprint. She’d done a CPR certification course at the community center last year—mostly because they offered free pizza—but she hadn’t used the training on anyone except the test dummy named Resusci Anne.
“Hey, wake up,” she said, tapping his chest with the back of her knuckles. “Come on, stay with me.”
Still nothing.
Emily dialed 911 so fast her gloved fingers fumbled.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a guy on a bench—he’s breathing but barely. I think he overdosed. I’m at Simmons Park, north path, near the—near the old fountain.”
“Is he responsive?”
“No.”
“Check his airway. Start rescue breathing if necessary. Emergency services are on the way.”
Emily shoved her phone between her shoulder and ear, pulled off her gloves, and knelt. Her breath fogged the air as she tilted the man’s head back. His pulse fluttered unsteadily beneath her fingers.
“Okay, okay, you’re not dying today,” she whispered.
She sealed her mouth over his and gave two breaths, counting silently. His chest rose weakly.
Another breath.
Then—coughing.
Violent coughing.
The man jerked forward, gasping, hacking, arms trembling as they pushed against the bench.
Emily yelped and fell back on her heels.
He blinked, dazed and unfocused, like someone waking from a dream they didn’t want to remember. His pupils were pinpricks. His breath hitched.
“Hey,” Emily said, steady but gentle. “You’re okay. Just breathe, okay? Help is coming.”
He stared at her, confusion swirling behind half-closed eyes. “Your… name?” His voice scraped out of his throat like gravel. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Emily. Don’t talk. Just breathe.”
He nodded slightly, then sagged back, chest rising more evenly. Sirens wailed in the distance.
When the paramedics arrived, they swarmed him with practiced urgency. Emily stepped away, hugging her arms against the cold. A paramedic asked her a few questions, thanked her, and before she could fully process what happened, they whisked him away in the back of the ambulance.
Her bike leaned against the bench. Her delivery timer glowed in bright red digits. Ten minutes late. Unrecoverable.
“Crap,” she whispered.
She rode off, shivering, unaware that the man she’d just saved was the same one plastered across every billboard on Lincoln Avenue, every bus shelter ad, every music blog.
She had no idea she had just saved Aiden Fox—America’s favorite heartbreak anthem, rock’s glitter-dusted prodigal son, the man whose last album had gone triple-platinum in a month.
And he would not forget the girl who saved him.
Two Days Later
Emily rarely watched the news, but when her phone buzzed with an alert she accidentally swiped open, a headline caught her eye.
ROCKSTAR AIDEN FOX RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER OVERDOSE IN CITY PARK
Emily froze.
She clicked the article.
There was a picture of him—not from the scene, but a promotional headshot from his world tour. Tousled dark hair. Sharp jaw. Dangerous eyes lined with smudged eyeliner in magazine spreads. A matching pair of very memorable black boots.
Her heart crashed into her ribs.
“No way,” she whispered.
The article mentioned a “Good Samaritan woman” who had begun life-saving measures before paramedics arrived. Unidentified.
Emily felt the blood drain from her face.
She saved a rockstar. She saved the rockstar.
Her fingers shook so badly she dropped the phone and it hit the floor with a clatter.
Liam, her sixteen-year-old brother, peeked in from the hallway. “Em, you okay?”
She stared at the phone like it might explode. “I think… I think I saved that guy from the billboards.”
“What guy from the billboards?”
She held up the screen. Liam’s eyes bulged.
“No freaking way. That’s Aiden Fox.” Then his expression twisted. “Wait—you gave Aiden Fox mouth-to-mouth?”
“Oh my God, please don’t say it like that.”
Liam whooped. “You kissed a rockstar—”
“I was saving his life!”
He shrugged, grinning. “Same thing.”
Emily flopped back on the couch, pressing her hands over her face. “This is insane.”
“Are you gonna tell someone? Like the news? You should get a reward or something.”
“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not. I don’t want attention. I don’t want cameras. I don’t want weird fans showing up at our door.”
“He might want to thank you,” Liam said.
“He asked for my name, and then he passed out again.”
“So? Maybe he remembers.”
“He was overdosing! He probably doesn’t remember anything.”
Liam crossed his arms. “Someone should. You saved his life.”
Emily didn’t reply, but a small, unwelcome warmth bloomed in her chest at the thought.
Aiden Fox Wakes Up
The hospital ceiling was too white. Too clean. Too ordinary for the life of the man lying beneath it.
Aiden Fox blinked slowly, his head pounding like a bass drum trapped inside his skull. IV lines tugged at his arm. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside him. The room smelled like antiseptic and stale air.
He groaned.
He knew the drill—rehab, relapse, press scandals, managers yelling, a half-written album waiting, fans speculating, vultures circling.
He’d done this before.
But this time felt different, like he’d fallen through a gap in his own life.
His manager, Gloria Reeves, stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, a storm in business heels.
“You’re awake,” she said flatly. “Good.”
Aiden rubbed his eyes. “How long was I out?”
“Long enough that I canceled two interviews, one radio slot, and a late-night appearance,” she said. “Your PR team is working overtime.”
“Great,” he muttered. “Add it to the list.”
She sighed and softened slightly. “You scared us, Aiden.”
He turned his head away. The memory of cold air, numb fingers, the texture of a park bench against his spine flickered. And a voice. Soft, urgent. A woman leaning over him. Breaths filling his lungs. Eyes full of fear and determination.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
Gloria blinked. “Who?”
“The girl,” he said, sitting up despite the stabbing in his ribs. “The girl who saved me.”
“The paramedics said a woman found you and started CPR. She left before they could get her name.”
Aiden’s pulse thumped faster, unsteady.
“I remember her,” he murmured. “She said… Emily.”
“So you do know her name?”
“I asked for it. I think.” His voice was distant. “She had brown eyes. Serious eyes. She looked terrified.”
Gloria opened her tablet. “We can try to identify her. Someone might have footage from nearby cameras.”
“No.” Aiden shook his head quickly. “No, don’t do that.”
Gloria raised an eyebrow. “Why not? She saved your life. It would be good for your image to thank her publicly.”
Aiden clenched the bed sheet in his fist. “Because she didn’t know who I was.”
“And that matters?”
“It’s the first real moment I’ve had in years,” he said quietly. “No noise. No fans. No cameras. Just… someone helping a stranger because they cared.”
Gloria studied him. She’d managed Aiden long enough to know when a line of thought was carved too deeply to challenge.
“Fine,” she said. “But the press is running wild. A statement would help.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I need… time.”
What he didn’t say was:
I need to find her. Without the world doing it for me.
The Knock on Emily’s Door
It happened a week later, on a Thursday evening when Emily was folding laundry on the couch and trying to ignore the news cycling endlessly about Aiden’s “near-fatal overdose” and “fall from grace.”
Three sharp knocks echoed from the front door.
Emily frowned. Liam was in his room playing video games. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
When she opened the door, her breath stopped.
A man stood on the porch wearing a hoodie pulled low over his forehead, sunglasses despite the fading daylight, hands in his pockets.
Even with half his face hidden, she recognized him instantly.
Aiden Fox.
In person, he looked different—less polished than the billboard version, hair a bit messy, dark circles under his eyes. Human.
“Hi,” he said, voice soft, almost sheepish. “Are you Emily Hayes?”
Her jaw dropped. “Um… yes?”
“I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
He winced. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”
They stood awkwardly. Emily felt her pulse racing, disbelief swirling like a tornado inside her.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He lifted both hands in surrender. “Not in a creepy way. I swear. I remembered your name, so I had my manager call local hospitals, then the paramedics’ report, and then the dispatch center. Eventually we narrowed down the location and—” He stopped, embarrassed. “This sounds creepy, doesn’t it?”
“A little.”
He nodded. “Okay. Fair. I’m sorry. I just… needed to thank you.”
Emily studied him. He looked vulnerable, hands trembling slightly, breathing shallow. Not a rockstar. A man.
“I didn’t do anything special,” she said quietly.
“You saved my life.”
Emily swallowed. “Anyone would have.”
“No,” he said, and there was something raw in his voice. “Not anyone.”
A gust of cold wind blew across the porch. Emily stepped aside.
“Do you want to come in?”
He hesitated, like he wasn’t used to asking permission. Then he nodded and stepped inside.
Coffee, Conversation, and Ghosts
Emily made coffee mostly because she needed her hands to do something. Aiden sat at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, fingers tracing the grain of the wood like he was grounding himself.
Her apartment was small—living room, kitchenette, two bedrooms, mismatched furniture—but it was clean and warm, lived-in. Aiden seemed almost afraid to disturb anything.
“You really don’t remember much of that night?” she asked finally.
He shook his head. “I remember being cold. And tired. And… done.” His throat constricted. “And then I remember you.”
Emily set a steaming mug in front of him. He wrapped his hands around it, savoring the warmth.
“Why were you there?” she asked softly. “In the park, I mean.”
Aiden gave a humorless smile. “I thought I wanted to be alone.”
Emily didn’t push. She didn’t need the details.
He looked up. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you stop?” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t you just walk away?”
The question hit her like a blow.
Emily sat down across from him. “Because you were dying,” she said simply. “And I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I could do something.”
He stared at her for a long moment, eyes shining with something she couldn’t name—pain, gratitude, fear, maybe all of it tangled together.
“You’re the first person in a long time who did something for me without wanting anything back,” he whispered.
Emily’s cheeks warmed. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” he insisted. “Fans want something. The label wants something. My manager, the press, the industry… everyone needs something from me.” He paused. “But that night, you didn’t want anything except for me to breathe.”
Emily didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t.
They sat in silence, sipping coffee.
Finally, Aiden cleared his throat. “I want to repay you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”
Emily shook her head. “You’re a human being, Aiden. Not a debt.”
He blinked, taken aback like he’d never heard those words before.
Then Liam’s door swung open.
“Em, have you seen—”
He froze.
Stared.
His mouth fell open so wide Emily worried it might get stuck that way.
“Oh my God,” Liam whispered. “Aiden. Freaking. Fox.”
Aiden lifted a hand. “Hey.”
Liam made a strangled noise and backed into his room, closing the door very, very slowly.
Emily covered her face.
Aiden laughed—the first real laugh she’d heard from him—and something inside the apartment loosened.
Something inside Aiden did, too.
A Request He Didn’t Expect
An hour passed in easy conversation. They talked about everything and nothing—music, delivery mishaps, growing up broke, growing up famous, bad coffee, good lyrics, the pressure of being a public brand instead of a person.
Aiden relaxed, inch by inch, as if the weight on his chest had less room to breathe in a space that felt real.
Then he looked at her seriously.
“Emily… can I see you again?”
The room went still.
She stared at him. “Why?”
His voice was fragile. “Because when I woke up, the first clear thought I had was your face. And because being here—talking to you—feels more like my life than anything has in years.”
Emily’s heartbeat fluttered, confused and startled and unsteady.
“I’m not part of your world,” she said.
“Maybe that’s the point.”
She exhaled slowly, searching his eyes. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t trying to charm her.
He was asking.
Like a regular man.
Emily hesitated—but only for a moment.
“Okay,” she said softly. “We can talk again.”
Aiden smiled—small, real, unguarded. “Thank you.”
When he left that night, slipping out the back door to avoid attention, he paused on the stoop.
“Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. You saved my life.”
He looked at her like he was memorizing the moment.
“And I think you might be the only person who ever really sees me.”
Emily didn’t know what to say.
So she said the only truth she had.
“Try seeing yourself, too.”
Aiden held her gaze, nodded once, and disappeared into the night.
But he would be back.
Their story was only just beginning.
