“You need stitches and I don’t have any equipment for that.” I shake my head, rummaging through my supplies. A packet of butterfly strips. I sigh. They’ll just have to do.
"You’re a nurse," he says. Not a question.
"Was."
"Why past tense?"
I secure the last dressing and sit back, pulling off the gloves. "Long story."
"We have time."
"No, we don’t. You can rest here, but tomorrow you need to leave. Do you have anyone I can call?"
His eyes hold mine. Something shifts in them, something I can't quite read.
“Your bedside manner is lacking,” he grunts, shifting to get more comfortable on my now bloodstained couch. Another expense I can’t afford.
"Why are you so eager to get rid of me?"
My heart does a strange stutter. I ignore it.
“Because,” I counter, looking straight into his eyes, “you’ve just turned up on my doorstep shot, for god knows what reason,and the last thing I need is to be dragged into something I have no interest being in.”
I clear away the detritus from around him, dropping it all into a plastic bag to dispose of.
"Yes. I patched you up. You rest. Then you go. That's how this works."
"If you say so."
I stand, gathering the bloody gauze and used supplies. "I do say so. This is my home. You're a guest. A temporary guest."
"Okay."
He says it easily, but something in his tone makes me think he's lying.
I dispose of the medical waste and throw his shirt in the washing machine before washing my hands thoroughly in the kitchen sink. I let the hot water run longer than necessary. My hands are shaking now that the adrenaline is fading.
What the hell did I just do?
I let a bleeding stranger into my home. A man with a gunshot wound who refuses to go to the hospital. A man who might be running from something, or someone, far more dangerous than I want to be involved in.
This is insane.
But when I turn around, he's still there on my couch, breathing and bandaged and watching me with those winter-cold eyes, and I know I've already made my choice.
"You need water," I say, filling a glass. "And something for the pain. I have ibuprofen."
"That'll do."
I bring him both. He takes them without comment, swallowing the pills dry before drinking the water in three long pulls.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"Don't thank me yet. You might still die of infection."
"Optimistic."
"Realistic." I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how close I'm standing. How large he is, even injured and slumped on the couch. How the air between us feels thick with anticipation.
