CHAPTER 4: The Man I Shouldn't Save
(Betty's POV)
I need to do something normal.
Something that does not involve blood or bandages or a wanted criminal on my couch.
So I cook.
Eggs. Toast. The same thing I made yesterday. It is the only thing I have left that feels like me.
He watches me from the couch. I feel his eyes on my back the whole time. It should make me uncomfortable. It does. But not in the way I expect.
I plate the food. Two plates. I carry them to the living room.
I set one on the table in front of him.
"Eat," I say.
He looks at the plate. Then at me.
"You first."
I blink.
"What?"
"You first," he repeats. "Eat."
I stare at him.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He holds my gaze.
"Because I do not trust you."
The words land flat. Simple. Honest.
I almost laugh.
"You do not trust me? I stitched you up. I did not call the police. I am feeding you. And you do not trust me?"
"No."
I grab my plate.
"You think I poisoned it?"
"I think I do not know you."
"Then get to know me," I snap. "But eat the food. You need it to heal."
He does not move.
I sigh. Loud. Frustrated.
"Fine."
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
"There. Happy?"
He watches my throat. Making sure I swallowed.
"Good," he says.
He reaches for his plate.
I sit on the chair across from him. I watch him eat. Slow. Careful. Like every bite is measured.
This man i shouldn't have save, he's on my conuch and now he's eat like the world is about to take it from him.
I shook my head.
"You eat like someone is going to take it from you," I say.
He pauses.
"Someone usually does."
Something in my chest tightens.
I look away.
We eat in silence. The only sound is forks on plates.
"Why are you being kind to me?" he asks.
I look up.
"I am not kind. I am a doctor."
"There is a difference."
"There is not."
He sets his fork down.
"Yes," he says. "There is."
I stare at him.
"A doctor saves a life because it is their job. A kind person saves a life because they cannot walk away."
My throat feels dry.
"You do not know me," I say.
"I know you did not call the police."
"That does not make me kind."
"What does it make you?"
I open my mouth. Close it.
I do not have an answer.
He picks up his fork again. He eats.
I watch him.
The way his jaw moves. The way his fingers hold the fork. Gentle. Careful. Like he is afraid of breaking it.
"You are staring again," he says without looking up.
"I am not."
"You are."
I look away. My face feels warm.
"I am trying to figure you out," I say.
"Good luck. I have been trying for twenty-seven years."
I almost smile.
Almost.
He finishes his food. He sets the plate down.
"Why did you become a doctor?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard.
"To save people," I say.
"That is not the real answer."
I hesitate.
"Because I could not save my parents," I say quietly. "So I save everyone else."
He looks at me.
A long look.
Not pity. Something else. Something that looks like understanding.
"I am sorry," he says.
"Do not be. You did not kill them."
He flinches. Just a little.
"No," he says. "But I have killed other things."
The room goes quiet.
I should ask what he means. I should run. I should call the police.
I do none of those things.
I stand up. I take his plate. I walk to the kitchen.
My hands are shaking again.
"What are you afraid of?" he asks from the living room.
I stop.
"Myself," I say before I can stop myself.
Silence.
Then, softly, "Why?"
I turn around.
He is standing at the edge of the kitchen. How does he keep moving without me hearing?
"Because I should be afraid of you," I say. "But I am not."
He takes a step closer.
"You should be."
"I know."
Another step.
"Then why are you still here?"
I hold his gaze.
"Because I do not know how to leave."
He stares at me.
I stare at him.
The space between us is small. Too small.
"Betty," he says.
"What?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
Then—
"Marry me."
The words hang in the air.
I blink.
"What?"
"Marry me," he says again.
The plate slips from my hand.
It hits the floor.
It shatters.