Ezra
Allen's hand stilled for a moment.
He didn't answer me.
Instead, he reached for another clean cloth and gently wiped away the streak of blood that had run down my heel. His attention stayed on my foot as though he didn't hear the question I asked him.
"What do you mean?" I asked again.
Silence.
"Allen."
He carefully removed the last tiny splinter of glass before setting the tweezers aside. Then he dipped his fingers into the small clay pot of comfrey salve and spread the cool ointment over the cut.
It stung so much and I flinched.
"I'm almost done," he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft it made me angry. I didn't want him to trigger any romantic feelings in me, especially after what happened last night, and the recent revelations I've come to find.
"You don't get to act like nothing happened, then ignore me."
Still, he said nothing. He still didn't reply to my question.
