I jump off the couch and dash out the door, running my hand over my eyes and raking my fingers through my hair.
The carrier greets me and hands me a box. I sign for it, and he quickly pulls away.
I bring the box inside the house, set it on the table, and open it. I pull out the clothes, remove the packaging and take them to the bedroom. The water runs in the bathroom.
I lay the clothes on the bed and wait.
“Hey.”
His soft voice echoes behind me.
I spin around.
“Hey.”
A towel wraps around his waist, hugging his muscular thighs. His body is now a board of scars, tattoos, and wounds covered by dressings, scratches, and bruises.
“I need to check them,” I say, motioning to his torso.
He lowers himself on the bed while I pull a pair of gloves on. Quietly, he observes me as I examine his wounds and change his dressings.
“Why did you drop out of school?” he asks after a few more moments.
I glance at him.
His blue-gray eyes study me, curious. I shift my focus back to his chest.
“You would’ve made a good doctor,” he says.
I breathe out a soft chuckle.
“I’m good with you. Normally, I have a hard time dealing with people. Besides, I have a bad temper. I can inflict pain as quickly as I can heal someone,” I joke.
I raise my eyes again.
“Why are you good with me?” he asks.
“Because I like you.”
Pain flashes through his eyes as I touch a sensitive area.
He tenses and closes his eyes, and for a moment, my gaze lingers on his features, so attractive, despite the ache on his face.
His lips part slightly, and my eyes get lost in the sight as my hands keep working.
“Why would you like someone like me?” he finally asks, observing me with half-shut eyes.
I peel my gaze away from his face and shrug.
“I don’t know. I don’t like many people, but I like you,” I say.
A few moments of silence pass.
I feel the heat of his stare on my face, yet I keep working without lifting my gaze.
“I don’t think you’re as bad as you want me to believe,” he murmurs.
“Maybe I’m not, but I’m not that good either,” I say, smiling bittersweet.