“There was,” I agree.
“It was really big.”
“It was.”
She stares at me for a second, and then something shifts in her expression. She’s processing. Good. That’s good. That means she’s coming back to herself.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell her, nodding at the cut above her eyebrow. “Not badly, but I’m going to clean it up.”
When she reaches up and touches the cut, she winces. “Ouch.”
“Don’t touch it.”
She drops her hand immediately, and I stand up and head to the bathroom to grab the first-aid kit. While I rummage through the cabinet under the sink, I tell myself that the only reason my chest feels like that is because of the residual adrenaline from running barefoot across my backyard to chase off a bear. That’s all it is.
That’s definitely all it is.
I slam the cabinet door shut and head back to the living room with my first-aid kit. Birdy is sitting up. The faraway look in her eyes has gone, and the color has returned to her face. All good signs.
I sit down on the table in front of her and open the kit. I’ve treated worse wounds in worse conditions with worse equipment, so this should be easy.
“This might sting,” I tell Birdy.
“I can handle it.”
I lean in and get to work, and I’m very focused on the cut. I am entirely, one hundred percent focused on the cut and nothing else. Not on how close I have to get to clean it properly. Not on the fact that she smells like flowers and potting soil. Not on how soft her skin feels under my rough hands.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
“Fifteen years of practice.”
“Doctor?”
“Military. Disaster relief coordinator.” I press the butterfly closure carefully into place and sit back. “All done.”
She reaches up again instinctively, and I catch her wrist before she touches it.
“Better not touch it yet,” I say.
We both go still. My hand is wrapped around her wrist, and her pulse is racing under my fingers. I let go before she thinks I’m someone who uses aggression. I don’t. And I would never. But she doesn’t know that.
“Sorry,” I say, which is not a word I use often.
“It’s okay,” she says and smiles at me.
I close the first-aid kit and stand up, putting a reasonable amount of distance between us.
“Is there someone I should call?”
She shakes her head. “No, there’s no one.”
I don’t know what to do with that. It doesn’t sit right with me that she has no one to call after a near miss with a bear. No one who’d want to know she’s okay. That’s a lonely thing, even if she doesn’t say it like it is.
But somewhere underneath that thought is another one I like even less. A flash of relief that there’s no man waiting for her somewhere. That she’s unclaimed. That no one can take her away from me.
“I should go,” she says. She’s already shifting forward on the couch, planting her feet on the floor like she’s testing whether her legs still work. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Sorry.”
“It’s getting dark,” I say. “And you don’t know these trails. I’m not letting you go.”