But he hadn’t earned my kindness. Acting detached and professional was the only option to keep me safe from repeating the same mistakes.
I pointed at Aiden’s bandaged hand. “How did you do it?”
He grimaced. Did the injury cause him pain, or was it the cold, clinical bite of my voice?
“Chisel,” he eventually answered.
I nodded like I had the faintest idea about tools and scooted my stool beside him. It took a stern glare before Aiden presented his hand. Red spots peeked through the heavy layers of gauze. He’d made a real mess of his hand with that chisel thing. I squinted. Even though the bandage was twisted and bunched in some parts, the smooth, neat lines looked professional, as good as some doctors could do—maybe better.
Curious, I tilted my head. “Who dressed your wound?”
“I did.”
“One-handed?” My eyebrows popped up. “You did a pretty good job. You’ve had first-aid training?”
“Something like that.”
That man never gave me a straight answer. “Just full of secrets, aren’t you?”
The tap of Aiden’s boot stopped.
Sighing, I focused on unwrapping the bandage. My mind looped with a steady chant.
I can do this.
I prided myself on being a good doctor, but there were some parts of the job I’d never get used to. Losing someone always hits the hardest. I’d cried myself to sleep almost every night duringmy oncology rotation at medical school. But worst of all was seeing someone I cared about hurt. Attachment made it harder to separate the patient from the person. It was impossible not to feel their pain under my own skin…
Gulping big breaths, I slowly peeled away more of the bandage. But as the red blot grew wider and wider, familiar prickles of dread spiked down my spine. I screwed my eyes shut and forced in another breath. Time to lift the final layers of gauze. I cracked one eye open and peeked at Aiden’s hand. So much blood.
Nope. Not ready.
Gritting my teeth, I pried off the last piece. A retch shuddered through me, but I quickly recovered to pretend I hadn’t almost vomited all over the clean, white sheets tucked over the treatment bed.
Aiden chuckled. “You’re a bit of a soft touch, Lola.”
I narrowed my eyes. Was he insulting me at work? Oh, heck no. This was the one place I refused to be disrespected.
“It’s called empathy,” I snapped. “Maybe you should learn about it sometime.”
Silent, Aiden’s head bowed, his gaze falling to the syringe in my green dish of goodies on the trolley. The stoic mask he wore brightened. “I don’t want that,” he said, pointing at the dish.
“Scared of needles?” I wiggled my eyebrows. When he didn’t crack a smile, I sighed. “It’s a local anaesthetic. Just a teeny sting to numb the pain.”
He pulled his hand back.
“Aiden, I’m not incompetent. I know how to administer it properly.”
“I know.”
“Okay, so let me—”
“Don’t need it.”
I rolled my eyes. Not this nonsense again. A typical stubborn man trying to act like a hero. “There are no extra prizes for getting stitches without anaesthetic.”
“I want to feel it. Every single stitch.”
“Aiden—”
