“Leif, are you okay? Let’s get you to the hospital!” For a fleeting moment, Odessa’s voice was filled with genuine panic. She reached toward me, her usual aloof demeanor shattered. The way she said my name—it was intimate, protective, as if I were someone who truly mattered.
But the moment dissolved as quickly as it had come.
“Kirk!” Odessa gasped, her focus snapping back to him. A faint splash of broth marred his hand, and her face crumpled with worry. “Does it hurt? What if it leaves a scar? Oh, what should we do?”
Kirk, ever the actor, groaned softly for effect but remained calm and collected. “Odessa, don’t fuss over me. I’m fine. Really,” he said, his tone noble. “Go check on your neighbor. He seems to be hurt worse than I am.”
Odessa froze, torn for the briefest moment, but her worry quickly turned to anger. “I don’t care about him! This is all his fault! If he hadn’t flung your hand away, the server wouldn’t have stumbled. Now, because of him, you’re hurt!”
Her voice rang through the restaurant, drawing the eyes of every patron. Judging whispers rippled through the crowd. Even the server, who had looked apologetic moments before, seemed emboldened by her words.