My goodness, this man is not giving me a chance to collect myself. I'm barely holding on to my restraint, constantly reminding myself that I need to hold it in lest I confess back to Desmond before we leave for the yacht.
"It's just a scratch, Des—"
"And the scratch is oozing out a lot of blood, Leilani. Just let me take care of you, yeah?"
That manages to silence me, just like all his husbandly retorts have been doing since we left the kitchen. The 'wound' he keeps talking about is barely visible, though the blood is. Tiny red dots at least. I can't believe I lost the competition just because of something I could've wrapped with a tissue and continued my cooking.
It doesn't even hurt, damnit.
