Killme.
He scribbled something. “Any medications?”
“Just… antihistamines,” I said.
He raised a brow. “I see. For allergies?”
“It’s for hives,” I whispered. “Stress hives.”
Perhaps dying in the lift would have been easier.
The medic nodded. “And when did you last eat something?”
“Eat?”
He put down his pen. “Yes. Food or drink, since you woke up?”
“Um. Coffee. With oat milk. Eight-ish?”
“No breakfast?”
I closed my eyes briefly. “A breath mint.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The medic made a disappointed sound and wrote something in his notebook again. Probably “incapable of basic self-care.”
“Any recent nausea, dizziness, fainting—”
“Well, the lift dropped,” I said. “So… yes.”
“Fair enough.”Tick. “And you’re able to stay with your partner tonight?”
“My—sorry, what?”
The medic glanced at Chesty.
“Oh no. No, he’s not—we’re not—”
Chesty stared out the door as if the parked cars had become deeply compelling. His ears had gone slightly pink.
Was I imaginingthat?
“Right,” the paramedic said. “Well. Physically, you’re okay. Mild shock. Remnants of adrenaline. You might feel woozy for a while.”
Might?My whole skeleton felt like perished rubber. But that might not have been from the lift.
The paramedic packed up his kit and looked at Chesty again. “If she worsens, come straight to A&E or call 999.”
“Of course, not a problem,” he said, as if he’d somehow agreed to take on my well-being.
I wished for death.
“Oh, he really doesn’t need to,” I said briskly. “I’ve got people.”
Notexactlya lie. I had Eliza—although she was God knows where—and James, who would definitely step in. Possibly after filming any collapse and putting it on social, but still.
