Zoe's POV
Brandon went quiet—not the kind of quiet where someone has nothing to say, but the kind where thoughts are colliding behind the eyes. His gaze drifted from my bandaged ankle to the door and back to me. His jaw tightened slightly, as if he was piecing together something in his mind.
I watched him, anxious.
"Brandon?" I started.
Before I could ask what he was thinking, he jolted up from the chair beside my bed. The movement startled me.
He leaned over and began adjusting my sheets, tucking them neatly around my waist and legs as if I were fragile porcelain.
"What are you doing?" I asked, confused.
He didn't answer immediately. He smoothed the blanket again—intentionally, purposefully—like someone who was about to leave and needed something to occupy his hands.
"I've got to go," he finally said.
My heart sank. "What? Where are you going?"
The question slipped out faster than I intended.
