“Leif, let’s not do this here,” she said, leaning closer and dropping her voice. “There are so many people around. Let’s keep pretending. You focus on recovering, okay? Once we’re home, I’ll make it up to you.”
I smiled faintly and gently pushed her away. “Please, keep your distance, miss. We’re just neighbors. You wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, would you?”
She froze, puzzled by my reaction.
In private, I had always called her affectionate names like honey or babe. But now, the cold detachment of miss was the only title I deemed fit for her. She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could persist, a doctor entered the room for rounds, forcing her to retreat into her indifferent facade.
Before leaving, she still managed to offer a polite, almost rehearsed reminder.
“Rest well. Sometimes, neighbors are closer than family. Call me if you need anything.”
The doctor, noticing my strained smile, quipped with a chuckle, “Is your neighbor trying to win your heart? She’s too good at acting indifferent—makes you seem like you’re no one to her.”