He looked down at my feet and frowned. "You walked the whole way here?"
I nodded, keeping my eyes down. "I didn't have my phone or any money. I couldn't get a cab."
"You could have borrowed someone's phone to call me." He closed his eyes briefly, exhaled, then shook his head. "Never mind. I didn't think to leave you with anything. That's on me."
He guided me to the sofa, disappeared for a moment, and came back with the first aid kit. Then he knelt on the floor, lifted my foot onto his knee, and got to work cleaning the wounds. When the cotton swab touched the raw skin, I flinched and pressed myself back into the cushions. He sighed quietly. "Almost done."
He blew on it gently while applying the ointment, and I found myself watching him without meaning to. There was something careful and unhurried about the way he moved, like tending to someone was second nature to him.
That was exactly the problem.
