Layleen
I finally allow Ron to examine me, and to my surprise, he barely lays a hand on me. His touch, when necessary, is light and clinical—more careful than I expected. Yet, despite his professionalism, I don't miss the flicker of curiosity in his deep-set eyes as they trace the countless scars marring my skin.
Every time his gaze lingers a little too long, I instinctively flinch. And he notices. I know he does, because the moment our eyes meet, he offers me a small, reassuring smile and withdraws, putting distance between us.
"Well, there are no external injuries," he says, peeling off his gloves. "And I don't see any immediate signs of internal damage either."
I exhale softly, but my relief is short-lived.
Ron reaches into his canvas bag again, pulling out a set of syringes and test tubes. "I need to take a blood sample to run some tests."
