Always close.
Good.
I take a seat along the side, stretching my leg out slightly, testing the pull in my ribs.
Still there.
Still sharp.
Still not enough to slow me down.
Mila notices anyway.
Of course she does.
She drops into the seat across from me, arms crossed, eyes scanning me like I’m one of her systems checks.
“You’re not fine,” she says.
I lean back slightly. “Didn’t say I was.”
“You’re bleeding again.”
I glance down.
Yeah.
Okay.
Maybe a little.
“I’ve had worse.”
Her eyes narrow.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
“How is your side?” I ask.
She exhales, shaking her head slightly, but she’s already moving—grabbing a med kit from under the seat like she knew exactly where it would be.
Probably did.
“My side is fine. I told you it was a graze,” she says.
She kneels in front of me.
Right there in the narrow space between my legs.
Close enough that I can feel her breath when she leans in.
Yeah.
This is dangerous for entirely different reasons.
“Hold still,” she mutters.
