I pull out my old blood pressure machine and oximeter, making a note of his observations. They aren’t bad, considering…
"You should sleep," I say. "I'll check your observations and bandages in a few hours."
"Where will you sleep?"
"My bed. You're on the couch."
He nods, eyes already drifting closed. "Fair."
I watch him for a moment longer. His breathing evens out, the tension in his shoulders easing as exhaustion takes over. He almost looks peaceful.
The tattoos that cover his skin tell a different story. Symbols I don't recognize. Words in a language I can't read. This is a man who lives in a world I know nothing about.
I splay open my hand, hovering it over his left pectoral, beneath the dressing that is already showing signs of the wound beneath. My hand barely covers him and draws my attention to scars that are almost hidden between the blooms of ink beneath his skin.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten up. What was I thinking letting him in here?
Returning downstairs, I wipe the smears of blood from the doorstep and window, and deadbolt the door. I clean the drops from the floor and gather up my laptop.
Turning off the lights, I head to my bedroom, leaving the door cracked so I can hear if he needs anything.
In the dark, lying in my bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to process what just happened.
A stranger was bleeding on my doorstep, and I let him in.
I treated his wounds and made sure he was safe.
And now he's in my home, sleeping on my couch, and something in my gut tells me that one night won't be enough. Not for him.
I'm too tired to think about it now. Too numb from months of exhaustion and stress and pretending the numbers will somehow fix themselves if I just keep pushing through.
Tomorrow I'll worry about what I've done.
Tonight, I just need to sleep.
I close my eyes and try to ignore the awareness prickling at the base of my spine. The knowledge that everything just changed, and there's no going back.
Zakhar
Pain wakes me before dawn.
Sharp, grinding pain that radiates down my arm and over my ribs. I keep my breathing steady, controlled, and take stock without opening my eyes.
Couch. Unfamiliar apartment. Smell of bread and antiseptic. Bandages tight around my torso.
Lily.
The woman who opened her door to a bleeding stranger. The former nurse who patched me up with steady hands and no questions.
The woman I should leave behind as soon as I'm strong enough to walk.
I open my eyes. The apartment is still dark, early morning grey filtering through thin curtains. The space is small but clean. Worn furniture, mismatched but cared for. Photos on the wall. Her in scrubs with other medical staff, her at a bakery opening with an older woman, a few pictures of a dog as a puppy, and then older.
No photos of men. No male shoes by the door.
She lives alone.
I file that information away.
