Jasper froze. And Nina wanted to kick herself.
“I mean—at least wash up,” she added fast,covering her embarrassment with quick concern.“You should put ice on it. Your face is… really swollen.”
He stared at her for a long couple of seconds. Then, suddenly, he said:
“Okay.”
Nina flinched at the ease of his answer. An awkward, charged silence hung between them. Neither of them seemed to know what to do next.
She stepped aside to let him pass. Jasper walked by her in silence, into the house. No lingering look. No extra words.
She’d made a mistake.But it was too late to undo it.
In the living room, Nina came back with a first-aid kit and a bag of ice and set them on the table.
“Here,” she said over her shoulder.“Ice and the kit.You’re the doctor. Handle it.”
She didn’t even turn around. She took a couple steps back and stood there with her arms crossed,desperate not to look nervous. For some reason his presence was an electric pulse—small shocks running down her spine, straight through her.
A few minutes later Jasper came out of the bathroom after washing his face. His cheek and chin were flushed, and the swelling under his eye looked awful.
“Sorry,” he said, adjusting his clothes.“I got your towel dirty.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Nina shrugged without turning.“I’ve got a washing machine. And a housekeeper.”
Jasper laughed quietly and sank onto the couch, wincing.
“You sure nothing’s broken?” Nina asked.
“I’ll live,” he muttered, opening the kit.
He pulled out a blister pack, squinted at it. Another. A third.
“This is expired. This too. And this—this should’ve been tossed a long time ago.”
He kept pulling out package after package, and within a minute a pile of useless medication lay on the coffee table.
“When was the last time you checked this?” he asked, lifting his eyes to her.“You should restock. Or at least throw out anything with an expiration dateolder than the millennium.”
“We don’t get sick much,” Nina said stiffly.“The first-aid kit isn’t exactly a fan favorite in my house. Fortunately.”
He smirked, then winced again as he pressed the ice to his face.
The silence between them became charged—not heavy, but intense. Too personal.
Nina exhaled slowly, looking away. She didn’t want to look at him, but he pulled at her attention anyway.
“I think the only usable thing in here is the cartoon Band-Aids,” he said, setting down a bottle.“Even the peroxide is expired.”
Nina flushed. She quickly bent, grabbed the kit, shoved everything back inside, and slammed it shut.
“They’re for my daughter, okay?” she muttered.“She went through a phase where she was scared of regular Band-Aids—said they bit. The mermaid ones were fine.I bought so many, I still have spares.”
The house went silent for a second.
Nina’s gut clenched.
He was in her home. On her couch. Looking at her like he remembered—like he still remembered exactly how it had been. How she’d breathed. How she’d shaken. How he’d broken her.
