I studied it for half a second. “It’s deep. You’ll need stitches.”
He parted his mouth to argue, then thought better of it when the bleeding picked up again. I grabbed a clean rag, folded it, and pressed it firmly over the cut.
“Put pressure on that,” I instructed, all muscle memory and no patience as I headed to the living room for my bag. I unzipped it and dug past snacks and paperwork until I found the sterile suture kit.
When I turned back, he said, “You just carry that around?”
“You’d be surprised how often this turns out to be useful.”
I snapped on some gloves, spread a towel over the island with a practiced flick of my wrist, and laid everything out. I dragged one of the stools over with my foot and plopped onto it beside him.
“Give me your hand.”
He did, resting it on the towel, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder and very intentionallynoton his oozing palm.
“Does blood make you queasy?”
“I’m fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Good for you,” I replied, reaching for the lidocaine. “I actually couldn’t care less if you’re fine. I’m more concerned about you getting vomit all over my outfit, which costs more than your entire wardrobe.”
“Wow. Your bedside manner is truly impeccable. Do you weaponize that charm on all your patients?”
I met his eyes sweetly. “Of course not. I like my patients.” I spread a thin, even layer over the wound. “This is going to sting for about ten seconds. Try not to be dramatic.”
“Hard to be dramatic when you’ve already drained every ounce of drama this apartment can sustain.”
I leaned in, lining up the needle with exaggerated care, and answered his remark with a deliberate jab that made him flinch
“Whoops,” I murmured. “Finger slipped.”
He shot me a glare. “Oh, did it?”
“Mhm. I tend to get clumsy around irritating people.”
I started the first stitch. He didn’t so much as twitch—just sat there with his jaw locked, eyes zeroed in on some invisible point across the room.
“I was kidding, you know,” I said. “You’re allowed to express pain.”
“I’m not in pain.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Who hurt you so thoroughly that you can’t even confess to pain while I’m sewing your hand shut on the kitchen table?”
“No one hurt me.”
“We’ve all been hurt by someone, Khalifa.”
He squirmed in his seat, an uncomfortable adjustment that told me I’d hit a tender spot. I jammed my lips shut, focusing hard on the task. Silence, I decided, was safer—for both of us. The last thing I needed was him quivering at a poorly timed emotional breakthrough and sabotaging what was usuallya flawless suture job. I refused to give him so much as a microscopic scar he could one day hold over my head.
I tied the stitch, trimmed the suture, moved closer for the next one. Our knees brushed. I pretended not to notice on principle, even as his heat melted straight through me and did something deeply unhelpful to my concentration. I frowned at myself, refocusing, while his breathing stayed measured and controlled against my ear, like he was gripping himself together with the same discipline he was using to stay absolutely still.
“My day was good,” he said suddenly.
I paused, needle hovering. “What?”
“You asked me earlier how my day was. It was good.”
I met his eyes again, close enough now to see the faint strain there, the effort it took to keep that calm in place.
