Grunt.
The door clicks shut.
Phew.
I sit up slowly, pressing my palms to my burning cheeks. That wasabsolutelymortifying. He probably thinks I’m an idiot, or worse, that I have some kind of childish crush on him, which I absolutely do not, I’m just—
“Why are you blushing?”
A strangled cry slips past my lips.
How—what—
My rescuer is standing by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking like he just stepped out of a luxury menswear catalog.
“I thought you left!”
“And that’s why you blushed?”
No, obviously not.
But since I can’t admit that—
“It...it, um, it just sank in that I’m alone in a room with, um, an unmarried man—”
I can’t believe I’m fishing for information like this.
“—and it just seemed so improper all of a sudden,” I finish weakly.
His expression doesn’t change. “I have no designs toward you, Mira.”
Ouch.
But also...confusing?
Because him havingnodesigns on me doesn’t confirm whether he’s single or not.
“But I will take your reservations into account,” he says, “and have you transferred to a hospital—”
The realization that I’ve gotten myself kicked out of my rescuer’s home has me desperately backtracking.
“But it’s fine now,” I clarify hastily. “I’m happy where I am—”
He straightens off the wall, and the rest of my words die in my throat as he crosses his arms over his chest. Every time I see him take that stance, it always feels like he’s about to hand out a verdict on my life.
“Keep in mind that you are recovering from a bullet wound—”
“I know.”
“—that requires regular cleaning.”
Oh, right.
I did make it seem like I have really delicate sensibilities, didn’t I?
So I clear my throat and manage to croak out, “I realize I’m, um, fine with you checking my wound.”
“Are you sure?”
