Stan leaned back against the sofa cushion and listened.

There was something disarming about watching Sophie Youngs sing in a small, warm room. The campus belle. The ice queen. The untouchable goddess who had refused every guy’s gift, rejected all that tried to court her, before Stan came and she became his

She was standing in front of a karaoke screen in a maroon mini dress with her shoes off and a microphone in her hand, singing to an audience of one, and she looked completely, genuinely happy.

Her voice was so good that Stan was entranced and enjoyed the song throughout till she finished

The song ended leaving Stan’s heart wanting more, he didn’t know Sophie was this good, she even performed multiple times better than she did on the stream back when he gifted her over 200 million dollars, it’s insane... Surely Sophie will do well as a singer..

Sighing, Stan sat forward...

"One more please."

Sophie pointed at him with the microphone. "No."

"Your voice is good."

"My voice is acceptable, and your hand is not." She set the microphone back in the stand with the efficient finality of a nurse capping a syringe. "I’ve already delayed longer than I should have. If something gets infected because I wanted to sing another song, I will never forgive myself."

"I’m fine, Sophie,"

"You are not fine, Stan. The skin is broken, the joint is swollen, and you have been very calm about a hand injury that most people would be complaining about considerably more." She picked up her clutch and held out her other hand to him. "We’re going. Now."

Stan looked at her , at the particular combination of warmth and absolute authority in her expression , and recognized the look of a woman whose professional instincts had taken over and were not going to be overruled by sentiment.

He stood.

"This is the shortest karaoke session I’ve ever had."

"You can blame the man who forced my hand to be bruised and your knuckle to be split." She laced her fingers through his undamaged hand and tugged him toward the door. "Come on."

Stan followed, one corner of his mouth lifting.

’She’s worried about me.’

The observation landed quietly, differently than it might have a week ago.

The drive back to Four Seasons Garden was short and mostly silent , the comfortable kind.

Sophie sat with her feet tucked beneath her, one hand resting on the center console with her fingers loosely interlaced with his where it rested on the gearshift. She looked out the window at the passing city lights, her face soft in the amber glow, occasionally glancing at his injured hand with the focused, evaluating look she’d been wearing since the karaoke suite.

They took the elevator up to her floor. The doors opened and Sophie moved with purpose , straight to the bathroom cabinet, returning to the living room thirty seconds later with a white first aid box that was considerably more comprehensive than the average consumer kit.

It had the organized, tabbed interior of something assembled by someone who actually knew what each item was for.

She sat Stan on the sofa, pulled the coffee table close, and set the kit on its surface with the practiced efficiency of someone running through a familiar procedure.

"Give me your hand."

Stan extended it.

Sophie took it in both of hers , one hand cradling his palm, the other tilting it gently into the best light from the lamp beside the sofa. She bent over it, examining the damage with the close, unhurried attention of a trained eye conducting a proper assessment.

The split ran across the middle knuckle , a clean laceration from the force of the punch, about two centimeters long, with surrounding tissue that was swollen and beginning to discolor at the edges. No debris visible in the wound. No deep tissue involvement from what she could see.

"Nursing student?" Stan asked, watching her work.

"Yes." She didn’t look up. "Don’t move your fingers."

She moved through the kit with the quiet confidence of someone who had done this many times in clinical settings , antiseptic solution first, applied to a sterile gauze pad, pressed to the wound with firm, even pressure that she maintained for exactly the right amount of time.

She watched the bleeding, assessed the tissue response, and made her judgment.

Then the antiseptic wash , careful, thorough, ensuring the wound was clean before she moved to closure.

"This might sting."

"It’s fine."

"It will sting," she repeated, in the tone of someone correcting a statement of fact rather than making a prediction, and applied the antiseptic cleanser with a steady hand.

Stan’s jaw tightened slightly. He said nothing.

Sophie noticed. She paused for just a moment , the pad still pressed to the wound , and looked up at him with an expression that was doing its best to remain clinical and not quite managing it.

"Sorry," she said softly.

"Don’t apologize. Keep going."

She held his gaze for a moment longer than the situation strictly required, then looked back down at his hand.

The closure strips went on next , three of them, precisely aligned across the laceration with the careful attention of someone who understood wound margins and tension distribution.

Her fingers worked in small, deliberate movements, pressing each strip into place with gentle firmness, ensuring the edges of the wound were drawn together cleanly without puckering.

Stan watched her hands.

She had surgeon’s hands , not large, not strong-looking, but slender and precise. Every movement was intentional. Every adjustment was made before the movement completed rather than corrected after.

She held his hand like it was something worth protecting, and the care with which she handled it communicated something that had nothing to do with clinical protocol.

The gauze pad came next , a proper non-stick dressing laid over the closed wound, followed by medical tape applied in overlapping strips to hold it securely without restricting the joint.

Sophie sat back and assessed her work. Then , satisfied , she reached into the kit for one final item: a small ice pack, cracked to activate the cooling agent inside. She wrapped it in a thin cloth and placed it over the dressing, curling his fingers gently around it to hold it in position.

"Keep that on for fifteen minutes. It’ll help with the swelling." She looked up. "And don’t use this hand to punch anyone else tonight."

"I’ll try to resist the urge." Stan replied with a smile...

Sophie held his gaze with the particular expression of a woman deciding whether that deserved a smile or a lecture and settling for something that contained elements of both. While she was like this, she was inwardly thoroughly blaming herself for what happened to him...

Then, very slowly, she lowered her head and pressed her lips to the back of his bandaged hand, just above the dressing, against the uninjured skin. A single, quiet kiss, held for two seconds.

*** 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

A/N:

Please read the Creator’s Thoughts below.