CHAPTER 3: Blood on My Floor
(Betty's POV)
The silence between us is loud.
I do not know how long we stay like that. Me in the kitchen. Him on the couch. Neither of us speaking. The only sound is his breathing and the occasional car outside.
I should leave. Go to work. Pretend none of this happened.
But I cannot.
Because his blood is still on my floor.
I walk back to the living room. I stand across from him. My arms crossed over my chest.
"You need to rest," I say.
"I am resting."
"You are sitting. That is not the same thing."
He looks at me. Those dark eyes. So tired.
"I have rested enough."
Before I can stop him, he pushes himself up.
Bad idea.
His face goes white. His hand presses against his side. His legs wobble.
"Sit down," I say.
He ignores me.
He takes one step. Then another.
His knee buckles.
I move before I think.
I grab his arm. His other hand catches my shoulder. His full weight crashes into me.
We both freeze.
His chest is against my hands. I can feel his heartbeat. Fast. Too fast.
He is so close I can see the small scar on his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The way his breath catches.
Neither of us moves.
"You are staring," he says.
His voice is low. Quiet.
"You are bleeding," I say.
He looks down at my hands on his chest. Then back at my face.
"That is not why you are staring."
My face burns.
I pull away. I grab his arm and wrap it around my shoulder.
"You are impossible," I mutter.
"You have mentioned."
I help him back to the couch. He sits down slowly. His body is tense. His jaw is tight.
I kneel in front of him and check his bandage.
It is fine. The stitches held.
"You almost tore them open again," I say.
"You caught me."
"Barely."
"Enough."
I look up at him.
He is looking at me differently now. Not like a threat. Not like a stranger.
Like he is seeing me for the first time.
I look away first.
"Stop staring," I say.
"You started it."
"I was checking your wound."
"You were staring."
I shake my head and stand up.
"I am going to clean the floor."
"The floor can wait."
"The floor has blood on it. My blood. In my apartment. It cannot wait."
He watches me as I grab the cloth and kneel down. I scrub at the stains. Hard. Like I can erase last night.
"You are angry," he says.
"I am not angry."
"You are scrubbing like you are angry."
I stop.
I look at him.
"Yes," I say. "I am angry. I am scared. I am tired. And I do not know why I did not call the police."
He is quiet.
"And now," I continue, "you are here. In my home. On my couch. And I am cleaning your blood off my floor like it is normal."
"It is not normal."
"I know it is not normal!"
My voice echoes in the small room.
He does not flinch. He just watches me.
I sit back on my heels. My hands are shaking again.
"I am sorry," I whisper.
"Do not be."
"I yelled at you."
"You had every right."
I look at him.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
He tilts his head.
"You saved my life."
"That does not mean you have to be nice."
He is quiet for a moment.
Then, softly, "Maybe I want to be."
Something in my chest twists.
I look back down at the floor. The blood is still there. Faint. But there.
"You cannot stay here forever," I say.
"I know."
"They will come back. The police. The news. Someone."
"I know."
"Then what is your plan?"
He is quiet.
"Adrain."
He looks at me.
"I do not have one," he says.
Those four words hit me harder than they should.
The most wanted man in Manhattan. No plan. No escape. Just a stab wound and a stranger's floor.
I stand up.
"I am making more coffee," I say.
"Betty."
I stop.
"Thank you," he says. "For not calling them."
I look at him. His dark eyes. His pale face. His bloody bandage.
"Do not thank me yet," I say. "I still might."
He almost smiles.
"No," he says. "You won't."
I walk to the kitchen.
My hands are still shaking.
But not from fear anymore.