I saw the laptop as she dragged me by it. The spreadsheets. The numbers in red.
I know that look. I've seen it on men who know they're out of options, out of time, out of everything but the refusal to quit. She's drowning, and she doesn't even have the energy to panic anymore
Footsteps come up the stairs.
I close my eyes again, evening out my breathing. Pretending to sleep while I listen to her move through the small apartment. She pauses in the doorway. I feel her eyes on me, assessing. Checking to see if I'm still breathing, probably. Still alive.
Then she moves to the kitchen. Cabinet opens. Coffee machine gurgles to life. The smell hits me a moment later, rich and dark, exactly what I need.
I wait until I hear her pour a cup before I open my eyes.
"Morning," I say, voice rougher than I'd like.
She startles slightly, turns to face me. She's wearing loose sweatpants and an oversized sweater, hair pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. Still beautiful in that understated way that sneaks up on you.
"You're awake," she says. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got shot. Twice."
Her mouth twitches. "Accurate assessment."
She crosses to me, coffee in hand, and sets it on the table beside the couch. Then she pulls on a pair of gloves from somewhere and reaches for my bandages.
"You slept right through the night. I checked on you twice. Let me check the dressings."
I let her. She's all business, unwrapping the gauze with careful fingers, examining the wounds with a critical eye. Her touchis impersonal, clinical. But I notice the way her breath catches slightly when her fingertips brush my bare skin. The way her pupils dilate just a fraction.
She feels it too. The pull.
"Healing okay," she says, rewrapping the shoulder wound with fresh gauze. "No signs of infection yet. You're lucky."
"So you keep saying."
"Because it's true." She moves to the wound at my side, repeating the process. "Most people who refuse hospitals end up with sepsis."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly."
She finishes bandaging me and steps back, pulling off the gloves. "You need food. And more water. I'll make you something."
"You don't have to."
"You're in my home, bleeding on my couch. I'm not going to let you die of dehydration and low blood sugar on top of gunshot wounds. It would be inconvenient."
I almost laugh. "Inconvenient."
"Very." She disappears into the kitchen.
I reach for the coffee she left me and take a careful sip. It's good. Strong, no sugar, exactly how I'd make it if I were at my own place.
She returns with toast and eggs, simple but hot. Sets the plate on my lap without ceremony.
"Eat."
I eat. She watches, arms crossed, making sure I actually do it. Like I'm a child who might try to hide vegetables under the couch cushions.
"You didn't call anyone," she says after a moment. Her green eyes are narrowed on me, assessing.
