Tomas stood up slowly. Her weight – light, but noticeable. Her hair tickled his neck. The smell – jasmine and blood.
He started walking. Asphalt – cold under his feet.
Third point completed. But why do I feel… something?
The large moon lit the street – silver light fell over the two of them, over their shadows.
– Not far now, – he said quietly. – Past that next building – my home. The apartment. That's where I live.
He turned his head – her head had slumped onto his shoulder. Eyes closed. Breathing – steady.
She fell asleep. Probably exhausted. Shock. Pain.
He quietly unlocked the door. The stairwell – smelled of mold. He entered the apartment. The door closed.
In the bedroom – the bed unmade, blanket crumpled. He laid her down carefully.
He brought the medical kit – old, his father's. Opened it: alcohol, cotton, bandages, ointment with lidocaine.
He cleaned the wounds slowly:
The eyebrow – split, bleeding stopped.
The lip – cut.
Hands – scraped, dirty.
The leg – swollen, ankle dislocated.
Good thing she sleeps deeply. Won't be awkward.
Finished. Put on a bandage. Covered her with the blanket – warm, gray.
He went to the living room. The sofa – cold. He lay down. Closed his eyes.
Today had been an unusual day.