LYRA He finally sat down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he just stared at me, like he was trying to figure out whether to trust me or shoot me. Up close, he looked even more dangerous. Even more handsome. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked with blood and rainwater from the ground, the white fabric now a mess of red and gray. The sleeve tattoo running down his arm flexed as he rested the gun on his thigh, his muscles tense. I swallowed hard, snapping open the first aid box. My fingers shook slightly, not sure if it was from fear or the fact that he was way too close. “Take off your shirt,” I said, trying to sound firm but my voice came out smaller than I intended. He gave me that same sharp, teasing look that made my stomach twist. “You always talk to strangers like that?” he muttered, smirking faintly. “I don’t usually bring strangers with guns into my apartment either,” I shot back. “So this is new for both of us.” His smir
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