Every sound stopped except my own breathing.
My pulse jumped again, but for a different reason now.
“She doesn’t like to be touched,” Rafael added, his tone flat, as if he were stating a rule rather than explaining a person.
Of course I didn’t like being touched.
I hadn’t told Rafael the full truth—that contact from men didn’t just make me uncomfortable, it frightened me in a way I couldn’t easily explain.
Yet he said it so calmly, so certain, as if he already knew.
As if he understood my past. As if he knew exactly what had made me this way.
The physician cleared his throat nervously.
“Sir... I need to clean the wounds. Examine her. I can’t— I can’t do that without touching her,” he stuttered.
I could practically hear his hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to proceed or retreat.
My pain pulsed harder now, like it was reacting to the tension itself.
I was aware of everything at once.
The doctor’s hesitation.
Rafael’s stillness.
My own blood drying slowly on my skin.
Then Rafael moved.
“Then tell me what to do,” he said. “Step by step. You’ll guide my hands so I can administer the treatment properly.”
Then, softer—this time aimed at me.
“You’ll at least let me do this, won’t you, Loretta?”
I hesitated.
I didn’t know how to answer.
I shouldn’t have wanted him near me at all, and yet the thought of anyone else’s hands felt unsafe.
For a moment, I considered refusing.
Not just him.
Everything.
The touch. The examination.
My fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheet.
But the pain argued louder.
“I...” My voice wavered. “I don’t mind.”
My voice came out flat.
