"What is wrong with you? You're dying!"
"You're so pretty, puppy. And you smell so good."
"Emiliano, we have to treat your wound now."
"You're worried about me. I'm happy!"
It's like talking to a wall.
I could feel his panting on my neck. His body was so weakened, he just leaned on me with all his weight as the hole where the glass was a few seconds ago was gushing blood.
But this man did not care in the slightest.
His fingers brushed my arm first—light, almost careless—but they didn't move away.
Instead, they lingered.
Slow, deliberate, tracing just enough to make me notice. He wasn't in a hurry. His hand slid up to my shoulder, then rested there like it belonged, his thumb making small, aimless circles against my shirt. It wasn't forceful, but it wasn't unsure either.
It was the kind of touch that made it very clear he wasn't asking for permission.
