Ivan brought a first-aid kit with him and put it on the desk. I watched him roll up his sleeves. He opened the metal box and took out some Q-Tips and an ointment.
"What are you doing?" I asked guardedly.
"You have cuts and scratches on your face, I don't want them to scar."
I leaned away as soon as he got closer, pressing my palms against his steel chest to stop him. He looked down at my hand and raised a brow. Flustered, I pulled away.
"I only accept treatment from certified doctors. You don't look like you have a doctorate in medicine."
"You don't look like you have a degree in stupid, but you could definitely graduate tomorrow."
I gasped. "How dare you?"
He tried coming closer, but I dodged his hand.
"Fine," he said, putting the supplies back into the kit. "I'll take you to the hospital. Have a professional doctor take care of you while a nurse calls your parents to pick you up. I'm sure your mom will be delighted to see the state you're in."
He stood up to leave. Impulsively, I reached out and caught the hem of his shirt. He glared at me, and I lowered my eyes. Floors have never looked prettier.
"Don't go," I mumbled feebly. "I was joking."
My eyes widened when I felt his fingers run through my half-dried hair, pulling my head back so I'd look up and meet his gaze. His eyes held an intense gaze, but the crease of his brows softened.
"You're a mess," he said.
"I know."
He pulled away and picked up the ointment. This time, I let him touch my face. His fingers wrapped around my jaw and he pulled me closer towards him. His hands were strong and rigid — probably because he boxed and worked at a restaurant — but he was gentle with me. His usual playful smile and fatuous smirk now formed a thin line, and his brows furrowed as he focused on my injuries.
How could someone look this handsome even this close? No acne, no blackheads, no wrinkles, nothing. I couldn't pinpoint a single flaw. My eyes slowly trailed up the curve of his jaw, his tall symmetrical nose, before stopping at his eyes. They were neither blue nor grey, but a mix between a sea of cornflower blue and a jagged silver fire.
"Breathe," he said, snapping me out of my trance. I realized that I was holding my breath, and quickly inhaled, feeling oxygen reach my burning lungs. I felt my cheeks flush red in embarrassment. Pull yourself together, Desmond! Pull. Yourself. Together!
"Stop flinching," he ordered, applying more cream on my cheekbone. "If it hurts, tell me. I'll be gentler."
I puffed up my chest. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar."
"How would you know?" I growled.
"You're an open book."
"Oh, so you can read people's feelings now?" I snorted.
"Only yours."
"Why only mine?"
His eyes met mine. "Because you're you, Desmond."
My eyes widened. The sudden urge to cry came so abruptly that a lump had already formed in my throat. Those three words were all I've ever wanted to hear since I was a kid. 'Because you're you.'
When he turned towards the kit, I mustered up the courage to say what had been weighing on my mind. I even practiced my speech in the shower like the damn fool I was.
"I know we started off on the wrong foot. I had prejudiced thoughts on you, but it was wrong of me. It's just that you remind of someone.
"Who did I remind you of?"
I inhaled sharply, debating on whether I should tell him.
"My older brother, Arthur," I finally said. "The two of you are alike in so many ways. You have it all without trying, and I was jealous. I felt like you were looking down on me, but I shouldn't have blamed my insecurities. You're actually not that bad of a person."
I was wrong about Ivan. If he thought he was better than me, he wouldn't have bothered saving me in the dark alley. He wouldn't have brought me to his house, lend me his clothes, or take care of me. I had misunderstood his dry sense of humor for superiority and his impassiveness for scorn.
"I shouldn't have called you a twat-faced bimbo yesterday," I mumbled.
"Oh right, that was very...inventive of you."
"I suck at apologies, so, unfuck you or whatever."
To my surprise, his eyes softened, and a smile etched on his lips.
"You're so bad at apologies," he chuckled.
"I'm trying, okay?"
"I know."
My heart tugged.
"And thanks," I croaked.
"For what?"
"For saving me back at... For saving me."
He looked so beautiful when he smiled.
"Well, at least your thank you's aren't that bad."