When he realized my eyes were open, he paused. He didn't appear surprised.
"You're awake. I made tea. Soothing. Coffee's probably a little too much."
I studied his face, searching for signs of deception. "Thanks." I didn't reach for the mug yet. Accepting things from strangers was how you ended up unconscious. Or worse.
He set the mug on the coffee table and sat opposite me in a matching leather chair. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his hands hang loose between them.
The questions would start soon. Demands and accusations would be close behind.
I counted seconds in my head, waiting.
Matthew sat there, watching me with quiet attention. It wasn't the aggressive stare of an interrogator. He was only looking.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
He finally broke the silence with an unexpected question. "How's the pain?"
It wasn't who shot you, or why did you come to my apartment. It was only concern about my physical condition.
I swallowed hard. "Manageable."
"What should I call you?" he asked after another stretch of silence.
I considered fabricating something—John, David, Alex. Generic enough to be forgettable. He'd already saved my life twice. "Dorian" slipped out before I could stop it.
"I'm Matthew. You probably figured that out."
"Your uniform," I confirmed, remembering the patch sewn above the breast pocket.M. McCabe, SFD.
"Right. EMT for three years. Combat medic before that."
"Afghanistan?" I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew. The organization of his apartment and how he constantly scanned the space around him were clues.
"Yeah. Two tours."
I filed the information away in my head along with everything else I'd learned about Matthew McCabe.
Matthew leaned forward. "You slept nearly twenty-four hours, and you're running warm. Could be nothing, but I'd like to see."
I lifted my arm slightly, sending ripples of throbbing pain across my torso. The blanket slipped down, and the shirt rode up, exposing the white gauze wrapped tight around my ribs.
Matthew moved from the chair to the edge of the couch. His proximity triggered warning signals in my brain. My instincts told me to maintain distance and anticipate harm.
Digging my fingers into the couch, I forced myself to remain still as he touched the edge of the tape securing the bandage.
"This might pull a bit," he warned.
The gauze peeled away with a soft, tearing sound. Air hit the exposed skin, sending a shiver across my shoulders. Matthew's touch was cool against my fever-warm flesh, methodical as he removed the dressing layer by layer. He didn't probe unnecessarily. His examination was practiced and efficient.
The final layer came away, exposing the neat row of stitches he'd sewn. The wound looked angry but clean—no yellow drainage or excessive swelling, and no red streaks racing toward my heart.
He shared his assessment in one word, "Good." Then, he added, "No signs of infection yet."
His first aid kit lay on the coffee table, and he pulled out antibiotic ointment and fresh gauze. The medicinal smell filled my nose as he applied it with gentle pressure around the sutures, his palm spanning my ribs to stabilize the area as he worked. His hand was warm and solid.
I closed my eyes.
The weight of Matthew's hands reminded me I was real.
