For a moment, he just looked at me.
Not the way he usually did.
This was... different.
His gaze dropped, scanning me slowly—my face, my shaking hands, the blood still dried and smeared along my skin from the ridge.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then his hand moved.
Slow.
He traced the side of my thigh with his thumb, brushing against a streak of blood caught in the torn fabric of my leggings.
The contact was light—but it sent a jolt through me, both from pain and something else I couldn’t name.
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
His thumb lingered there for a second longer than necessary.
“Ten minutes on that ridge,” he added quietly, eyes still fixed on the mark he was touching, “and you’re already bleeding this much...”
There was something in his tone.
Not just observation.
Something... restrained.
Like he was measuring something he didn’t fully understand.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, it was gone.
He straightened slightly, his hand withdrawing from my skin.
The absence of his touch left a strange, cold emptiness behind.
“Take a bath,” he said, his voice returning to that same calm, composed tone from before. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
I stared at him.
Dazed. Aching.
Trying to process what was happening—what he was doing, what he wasn’t doing.
He didn’t look at me again.
He simply turned.
And walked out.
But he didn’t close the door.
It remained open behind him, a thin sliver of the hallway visible beyond, like an unspoken reminder that I wasn’t completely alone—but also not entirely safe.
The sound of his footsteps faded.
Then silence.
