When Jason Gunn got home, I was already lying in bed.
He had messaged me last night, saying he was at the hospital because of stomach pain, so I called him, but his phone was off.
I woke up early today to make him some soup and bring it to the hospital. If I hadn’t seen him laughing and flirting with Zara Ferguson, I would’ve genuinely been concerned for him.
As he climbed into bed, the mattress dipped slightly under his weight. He wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered, “Honey, why didn’t you wait for me to come to bed?”
If it were the old me, I would have wrapped my arms around his neck, eagerly responding to his subtle invitation. But now, I just wanted to get some sleep.
Seeing me stay silent, he took my left hand, gently stroking it.
“The soup was delicious. I drank it all. But be careful next time. I saw you burned your hands. Let me put some medicine on it,” he spoke.
The cool ointment quickly spread through my palm. He kissed my left hand lightly and went to take a shower.
The sound of water started in the bathroom, and his phone, which had been lying on the coffee table, began to ring nonstop.
As a heart surgeon, Jason often got late-night calls from the hospital. Afraid of missing an urgent call, I picked up the phone.
Before I could speak, a soft voice came from the other end.
“Dr. Gunn, was dinner good? I learned a new recipe and will make you meatballs tomorrow.”
Before I could respond, the phone was snatched away from me.
“I told you not to pick up my calls.” Jason’s voice was sharp.
His hand brushed against my burn, and the force was so strong it tore a layer of skin. Blood began to flow.
I gasped, clutching my hand. Jason, after telling the caller to call back later, grabbed my wrist roughly.
“You’re an idiot. You can’t even cook and still try to make soup. Now, look. You’ve burned yourself. Serves you right! Sit down! I’ll treat the wound.”
It was summer, and if the wound wasn’t treated quickly, it could easily get infected.
I sat on the couch while Jason retrieved the first-aid kit from his study. He kneeled in front of me to clean the burn.
Sighing, his tone softened. “Does it hurt, Honey?”
I didn’t respond. His touch became gentler, and I could feel him blowing on my wound softly, trying to soothe my pain.
When he stood up, a keychain fell from his bag. I picked it up and examined it closely—there was a dog and a cat on it, with the words, [Jason, I hope you’ll be happy every day. From Zara.]
Jason frowned slightly. “This was a gift from her when she was discharged. I just kept it.”
I placed the keychain on the coffee table, keeping my voice calm. “That’s thoughtful.”
For a moment, the atmosphere in the room felt thick, almost frozen.
Jason stared at me, bewildered. “Do you want me to keep it? Aren’t you going to throw it away?”
