Chapter 13

Her hands moved with a practiced grace, navigating the gauze and medical tape as she worked on cleaning and dressing the injury. The olive complexion and black ink of his arm had rivulets of red running down its length.

"What's with the weed?"

Up until he popped the question, Dr. Belle had been silently doing her job. Now she stared blankly at him. "You're the first person to ever say that," Dr. Belle said. "And what you're suggesting is also highly illegal."

"I know. I'm just curious where you found it, is all. I thought last year they busted huge reserves of it. Security must be tight."

"...again, very blunt."

She inhaled softly, finishing the last touches of his bandages and then going back to her seat. She crossed her legs and met his gaze head-on, dark to his light.

"It's a one-time thing," Dr. Belle admitted. "So I don't know the ins and outs of the operation."

Her cadence had shifted slightly. Was it worry? Fear? Or…

'Ooh, I see. Ha.'

He suddenly snickered. "I'm not a cop," Owen said. 

"That's what all undercover cops say."

"Have you ever met one?"

"Yes."

"In the act?"

"...no."

"Then I guess we're at a standstill." He laughed, the ends of his eyes crinkling. Dr. Belle blinked twice, emotionless. Getting a read on her expression was impossible. "By the way, my insurance does cover this, right?" Owen asked.

"Yes."

"Phew. I'm glad." Owen put his blue plaid shirt back on and buttoned up. He winced when the shirt went taut on his form, too tight against the bandages on his shoulder. He manned up and smiled regardless. "Thank you, Doctor."

She yawned. "You can go now. I suggest not going to work. Any movement will rip the stitches and everything else I did."

"Got it. Thank you again."

Rather than reply, she yawned again. He wore a thin smile as he slid off the bed and walked to the door. He gave a little wave but the doctor had already buried her head in arms on the counter. 

'Is she really that tired? I guess being a doctor isn't all it's cracked up to be.'

He took five steps through the hospital hall before stopping. "Wait…am I allowed to go home?"

***

He could go home. He texted Boss Mike and the man was adamant that he go home and rest up. Whether he was getting paid though was up in the air since he didn't ask. It felt too awkward when the boss was raging about the crane operators. There was a time and place for everything.

"Oh, hey, guys! You're up early!"

Isabella was in the living room playing a game with Ophelia joining her and giving her unnecessary commentary.

"Owen! Hey!" Ophelia got up and ran over to give him a hug. She nuzzled her nose in his shoulder and squeezed her arms around him. She was going for a super-fluffy, super-loving embrace. Her hair smelled like strawberries. She must have taken a shower a few minutes ago.

He patted her on the hand, smiling. "Have you eaten yet? Let's make some burgers!"

"Borgor! Yes!" Ophelia repeated the term in an over the top American accent. 

"You came back early," Isabella noted, grimacing. She was playing an online FPS and was engaged in a three versus three. She was losing. "What gives?"

Owen hesitated. If he told the truth, then they might overreact. 'But lying isn't healthy in a relationship. There's a difference between smiling when things are tough and outright lying to your girl's face.'

"I…got injured," he admitted, touching his shoulder. Isabella froze and consequently died. Ophelia stilled. "It was the crane. Some of the old guys were using it and some bad shit happened. Oh, sorry, swear jar."

"A crane…?" Ophelia said, eyes wide and terrified.

"Yep. The thing slashed my shoulder. I was trying to save my boss. He's okay but I had to go to the hospital. Got stitches and everything."

"How bad is it?" Ophelia asked, her voice as soft as a butterfly. 

"I'll be home for a couple days. There were a lot of stitches so the doctor said to take it easy," he said with a big smile. "And I think I'll be getting paid too."

Key word: think. Still had to double-check.

Ophelia quietly put on her hood. The dog ears went flat and she bit her bottom lip. "You almost died."

"That's…" Not an exaggeration. He definitely could have died. "...not what happened though, is it?"

His words of comfort didn't help. Staring at the floor, the blonde softly hit her head against his chest. Because of the hoodie, he wasn't able to see her expression.

Isabella continued playing her game in the living room. Quickly, she sent him a look saying, "You know how she gets."

Ophelia's simplicity and kindness was often weighed down by her terrible anxiety. No matter how simple her life was, no matter what she did, it always lingered. 

"Is he okay? Did he eat breakfast?" 

"What if he gets into an accident?"

"What if I never see him again?"

She stayed home, hung out with Isabella, watched videos online, and thought about Owen—and sometimes those thoughts nose-dived into negativity. His presence created a hole in her heart that only he could fill. Whenever she woke up and saw that he wasn't in the house, her anxiety spiked. But because it was noon, because her day had just started, Ophelia had to bottle it up. If Owen ever came late, if he even slightly deviated from his normal schedule, she would start to feel restless. Once, he was forced to do overtime and his phone battery had run out. He wasn't able to text Isabella, who shrugged and went to bed early, naturally assuming he was doing overtime.

Not Ophelia.

That day, Owen returned home to see Ophelia crying in the kitchen. 

Isabella was an irreplaceable friend. However, at the end of the day, she was just that, a friend. She wasn't Owen. Owen who was the warmth of light that Ophelia always wanted to cuddle up to. Owen who was the one thing that helped her with her anxiety.

Owen meant too much to Ophelia.

With his non-injured arm, he patted her head. "I'm sorry."

"You're the one that's hurt," she said into his shirt.

"Maybe. But some time ago I learned something important: pain, whether it's emotional or physical, can spread in ways we can't even imagine."

Only an idiot would get mad over his girlfriend being worried. He needed to be considerate.

"I'm so lame," Ophelia muttered, voice cracking. 

"Even if you were the lamest girl in the world, I'd still want you here." He gently pulled her head back to look at her. Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. He quickly wiped them away before they stained her cheeks. "How about we eat, hm?"

Ophelia nodded gingerly. "Okay…"

"Ophelia," Owen said, not breaking eye contact. "Thank you for being worried. Really. Thank you."