Military, my brain supplied automatically.
I’d grown up in Manhattan. My editor covered politics; I’d spent enough time around veterans and security consultants to recognize the signs. Posture. Watchfulness. The way his attention tracked movement even when his head didn’t.
And the injury.
Not a car accident injury.
Probably a fight injury.
I risked another glance.
His knuckles were scraped raw.
Definitely a fight.
The receptionist’s voice cut across the room.
“You,” she snapped, pointing at him. “You cannot bleed in my waiting room.”
His gaze shifted lazily toward her. “I’m not bleeding.”
“You are bleeding. Look at your face.”
He shrugged. “I can’t look at my own face.”
My mouth twitched, despite myself.
The receptionist huffed. “You need appointment. You cannot just come.”
“I was told the clinic opens at eight.”
“Yes. For scheduled patients.”
He stared at her a beat too long, and tension crept into the room. Not loud. But charged.
Like the temperature dropped.
“I just need stitches,” he said calmly. Too calmly. The kind of calm that suggested the alternative wasn’t pleasant.
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone just needs something. Americans?—”
Something pointed sparked in me.
Before I thought better of it, I stood.
“He’s already here,” I said, voice carrying across the small room. “You’re open. Why not help him?”
The receptionist blinked, surprised.
I surprised myself.
She looked between us. “It is not so simple.”
“It kind of is,” I said, shrugging lightly. “You heard the man. He’s injured. You’re a clinic.”
Silence.
Behind me, I felt his attention sharpen.
