Poppy passes him a rag and he crosses the small shop in quick strides. When he kneels down beside me my breath catches. “Here, this should help.” His hands are gentle as he dabs at the red skin with the cool cloth. “I’m okay,” I murmur, but he continues his ministration, his brow furrowed. “Really, I think I was just caught off guard. The tea wasn’t that hot.” “You should keep the cloth on your hand,” he says in a low voice. “But you’re right, it doesn’t look too bad.” He drapes the rag over my hand, then pushes up to standing. “Thank you.”
