“No.” Hana shook her head. “I don’t want a cast. It doesn’t feel broken.” She flexed it again and the offending bone sent a twinge of pain as far as her shoulder.
“Liar.” Logan thumped the kit on the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Let’s get the other hand cleaned up.”
Hana sat down and Logan took the wrist strap to an ancient radiator. He laid it over the hot metal with care. He undid the bandage and peered at the neat, black stitches, the ends sticking upwards like shocked polecats. The moment felt uncomfortable and intimate, their faces close as Logan leaned over to wipe away the blood with an antiseptic wipe.
Hana snatched another and tore the sachet open with her teeth. She closed her eyes against the pain in her wrist as she dabbed at her lips.
“Hana, don’t.” Logan clasped
