Chapter Six #2
“Right. My apologies. I forgot that suggesting we have a normal, adult conversation was apparently a high-risk activity for you. Besides,” I added slyly, “if I were responsible, you’d be in much worse shape than this. Now open your hand.”
“I said I’m—”
“—opening,” I finished for him, palm out expectantly.
He sighed, unfurling his fist. I steered him toward the sink, guiding his hand under the cold water. The blood thinned as it rinsed away, revealing the wound more clearly.
I studied it for half a second. “It’s deep. You’ll need stitches.”
He parted his mouth to argue, then thought better of it when the bleeding picked up again. I grabbed a clean rag, folded it, and pressed it firmly over the cut.
“Put pressure on that,” I instructed, all muscle memory and no patience as I headed to the living room for my bag. I unzipped it and dug past snacks and paperwork until I found the sterile suture kit.
When I turned back, he said, “You just carry that around?”
“You’d be surprised how often this turns out to be useful.”
I snapped on some gloves, spread a towel over the island with a practiced flick of my wrist, and laid everything out. I dragged one of the stools over with my foot and plopped onto it beside him.
“Give me your hand.”
He did, resting it on the towel, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder and very intentionally not on his oozing palm.
“Does blood make you queasy?”
“I’m fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Good for you,” I replied, reaching for the lidocaine. “I actually couldn’t care less if you’re fine. I’m more concerned about you getting vomit all over my outfit, which costs more than your entire wardrobe.”
“Wow. Your bedside manner is truly impeccable. Do you weaponize that charm on all your patients?”
I met his eyes sweetly. “Of course not. I like my patients.” I spread a thin, even layer over the wound. “This is going to sting for about ten seconds. Try not to be dramatic.”
“Hard to be dramatic when you’ve already drained every ounce of drama this apartment can sustain.”
I leaned in, lining up the needle with exaggerated care, and answered his remark with a deliberate jab that made him flinch
“Whoops,” I murmured. “Finger slipped.”
He shot me a glare. “Oh, did it?”
“Mhm. I tend to get clumsy around irritating people.”
I started the first stitch. He didn’t so much as twitch—just sat there with his jaw locked, eyes zeroed in on some invisible point across the room.
“I was kidding, you know,” I said. “You’re allowed to express pain.”
“I’m not in pain.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Who hurt you so thoroughly that you can’t even confess to pain while I’m sewing your hand shut on the kitchen table?”
“No one hurt me.”
“We’ve all been hurt by someone, Khalifa.”
He squirmed in his seat, an uncomfortable adjustment that told me I’d hit a tender spot.
I jammed my lips shut, focusing hard on the task.
Silence, I decided, was safer—for both of us.
The last thing I needed was him quivering at a poorly timed emotional breakthrough and sabotaging what was usually a flawless suture job.
I refused to give him so much as a microscopic scar he could one day hold over my head.
I tied the stitch, trimmed the suture, moved closer for the next one.
Our knees brushed. I pretended not to notice on principle, even as his heat melted straight through me and did something deeply unhelpful to my concentration.
I frowned at myself, refocusing, while his breathing stayed measured and controlled against my ear, like he was gripping himself together with the same discipline he was using to stay absolutely still.
“My day was good,” he said suddenly.
I paused, needle hovering. “What?”
“You asked me earlier how my day was. It was good.”
I met his eyes again, close enough now to see the faint strain there, the effort it took to keep that calm in place.
“Oh. Nice,” I replied awkwardly. “What did you do?”
“I had three ninety-minute lectures. I went to the gym, then did some grocery shopping and came home. After planning for tomorrow, I came into the kitchen and started dinner.” He stalled, the air shifting just slightly. “How was your day?”
The question was so simple, so normal, but it startled me. “It was kind of stressful,” I said honestly, tying off another stitch. “One of my patients needed an emergency C-section, and there was a complication during surgery.”
“Did she make it?”
“Yeah.” I exhaled slowly. “Thank God. I’ve never lost a patient, and I really hope I never do. I don’t think I’d survive it.”
His brow furrowed. “Then why did you become a doctor, knowing that losing a patient is inevitable?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s inevitable.”
The look he gave me said: Really, Lillian?
“Fine,” I muttered. “It is inevitable.”
I scowled at his hand, but the room blurred anyway, replaced by images I didn’t want to see: a mother slipping away, a baby too still in her arms. My stomach tightened with thick grief waiting in the wings.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Why did you decide to become a doctor?”
The bluntness of it caught me off guard. “Um...a few reasons.”
“Go on.”
I shook my head, suddenly feeling very small. “You’ll think they’re dumb. And I’m not in the mood to be mocked. I might accidentally cut your hand off.”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Since when did you care what I think?”
I chuckled. “Well, I guess it started when I was ten. I was at a wedding, and my mom was judging the bride because she’d married a taxi driver.
She looked at me and said, ‘Lillian, only marry a doctor.’” I paused, tasting the bitterness that memory still carried.
“It made me so angry—that she could look at a hardworking man and dismiss him, look at a happy bride and call her a failure, and then decide my life path in the same breath. So I vowed right then that I would become a doctor myself, just to spite her.”
He smirked. “Yeah, that is dumb.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I said a few reasons. That was just one of them—the first one, when I was a kid.”
“Enlighten me, then,” he said, voice softer but still prodding. “What are the other reasons?”
I considered brushing him off, keeping the distance I was so good at, but the words came anyway.
“I always found the concept of birth...beautiful.” I slowed, the truth easing out in uneven pieces.
“The things a woman’s body is capable of—it amazed me.
I guess I wanted to play a part in that.
To be there in the moment life begins. I like.
..” I swallowed, eyes dropping to the table.
“I like watching a mother hold her child for the first time.”
The room fell into that uncomfortable, library-level quiet. His expression evolved as he stared—searching, curious, trying to decode the parts of me I had yet to reveal.
As I pulled the last suture taut, a loose strand of hair fell forward, slipping into my line of sight.
I barely registered it—until his fingers lifted, tucking it behind my ear.
His touch was brief, careful, but it sent a small shock through me, warmth blooming low and uninvited.
My breath hitched. His hand lingered a fraction too long before retreating.
He cleared his throat and said briskly, “That’s reason enough. Are we done here?”
“Um, yeah. All done.” I covered the wound with gauze and wrapped it snugly.
“Keep this clean and dry for the next twenty-four hours. After that, you can gently wash it with soap and water—gently,” I emphasized, securing the bandage.
“Change the dressing once a day, or if it gets wet or dirty. Watch for redness, warmth, swelling, pus, or if it starts throbbing like it has a personal vendetta against you.”
“And the stitches?”
“I’ll take them out in seven to ten days,” I said. “Don’t pick at them. Don’t test your pain tolerance. And if you rip them open, I will not be impressed.”
I stood, rolling my shoulders once, and began gathering the wreckage—blood-speckled paper towels, the abandoned tofu knife, the half-crumpled hand towel.
“Here, let me help.”
“Don’t worry,” I said lightly, waving him off. “I’ve got it.”
He arched a brow. “You haven’t cleaned a single dish since you moved in.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing a sponge. “I’m pretty sure I can figure it out. You scrub the dishes with butter and rinse with olive oil, right?”
He almost smiled, but turned away before it could fully form. I went back to wiping the island, swiping up the last faint streaks of red, when his voice came from the hallway.
“Thank you, Lillian.”
I stopped, fingers tightening around the cloth, looking up to be sure I’d heard him right.
“You’re welcome, Khalifa.”