21

The smell of disinfectant filled the small living room. Rita's hand tightened slightly as she held the tweezers, her gaze fixed on Lester's bleeding arm. The young man was half-reclining on the sofa, his sweat-soaked white shirt clinging to his collarbone. Droplets of sweat trickled down his jawline, and as they disappeared into his collar, his Adam's apple bobbed slightly. “Say something if it hurts.” When the medical alcohol swab touched the wound, he indeed let out a muffled groan, his warm breath brushing against her wrist. Rita pursed her lips. “Every time you recklessly stand in front of me, I thought you weren’t afraid of pain.” “I’m not the iron man,” he smiled, focusing his gaze on her. “I’d rather see you get hurt than myself.” “But later I realized, you’re just…” He leaned closer, his tone tinged with half-serious, half-playful resentment, “heartless.” “Don’t move.” Her voice was hoarse, deliberately avoiding his eyes. The warm light from the living room lamp illuminat