The city streets are practically deserted at this time in the morning, and Miles drives fast. Taking us out west, to the nice, affluent part of the city.

Eventually, he pulls into a street lined with brownstones, parking outside a pretty bay-fronted property with roses climbing up the side. It's the kind of house that's loved and cared for; a stark contrast to what I'm used to.

Miles tells me to wait so he can open my door. It's kind of unnecessary, I still have a perfectly fine hand, but the sentiment is sweet.

He leads the way up stone steps as I trail after him, tugging at my dress, conscious of how I look when we're in a neighbourhood like this, even if it is the early hours of the morning.

If Miles notices, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he rings the doorbell a couple of times and stands back, seemingly at ease, turning out to look at the street.

The door opens behind him and a blond-haired man appears looking bleary-eyed, like we've just woken him, scruff on his chin.

"Miles," he greets curtly. "And you must be…"

"Mia," I supply, offering a small smile.

"Come on in then, but please be quiet my wife is sleeping." He ushers us into a huge hall, so big I think it's practically the size of mine and Luke's whole apartment. It's all I can do not to go slack in the jaw.

I find myself pouring over the decor. Painted in white and soft neutral shades, a large chandelier casting light onto tasteful black and white framed pictures. It's like something out of Elle freakin' Decor.

I wander slowly after Miles and his friend, down a corridor until we get to a small office room at the back of the house.

Cosy and full of dark wood furniture, there's floor to ceiling shelves lined with books and as I scan the titles, I realize they're all medical field related. Neurology, general surgery, journals, best practise, ethics…

Miles pulls out a black leather chair from the other side of the desk.

"Take a seat."

I sit down, tucking my dress underneath the backs of my legs so they don't stick to the leather as the blond-haired doctor closes the door firmly behind him.

"How can I help? It's early and I have a week of twelve-hour shifts starting in about... four hours," he says glancing at a clock on the wall.

I hold out my hand, removing the bandage, instead of trying to explain. Miles leans casually back against the bookcase opposite, folding his arms.

"I see."

Doc nods and moves around the office, pulling out a few things from a drawer, washing his hands in a little sink in the corner I hadn't noticed, before pulling on blue clinical gloves. He sits close before giving me a reassuring smile as he takes in my hand and then looks at my face.

A small frown appears, eyes roaming from the bruises around my eye and cheek to the Band-Aid covering my brow, he looks toward Miles warily.

"Just hold still," he says, as he examines my hand. "Can you turn that light on, Miles?" A bright light from the desk switches on as the Doc assesses my hand closely.

He takes out a saline solution and wipes down my hand methodically, despite me flinching, before applying a cream.

"Numbs the area, you'll still feel something, but it's better than nothing. Stitches I'm afraid, it's quite deep. You might have some nerve damage because of where it is, so I recommend you visit your actual doctor for a follow-up. Is it your dominant hand?"

I shake my head, feeling uncomfortable. I haven't got an actual doctor, I never registered with a practice since we moved here.

"Well, that's something," he pauses and glances at Miles again. "Why don't you let me have a look at your face whilst we're waiting for that to work, hmm?"

I'm a little taken back.

"OK," I say, my voice small. He's careful removing my Band-Aid and then tuts.

"You needed to get this seen when it first happened. It's not big but some stitches will do a much better job than a Band-Aid, it'll minimise the chance of scarring," he reprimands, bluntly. He's so close I can see the wrinkles around his eyes. "Don't really want a scar on that pretty face, do you?"

"Didn't realize it was that bad," I mumble, feeling embarrassed.

"Can you tell me what happened?" his fingers press and probe around my cheekbone. I wince, the whole area still feeling sore.

What to tell him? Is it OK to tell the truth? I decide against it. I don't really want to share.

"I felt really faint and managed to hit my face on the door as I passed out… woke up with this," I stammer, thinking on my feet.

"How long were you unconscious for?"

"I dunno. I was on my own."

He takes out a little penlight, shining it in my eyes.

"And you just passed out randomly?" Doc probes, "You weren't sick before? You didn't feel dizzy or light-head? Stand up too quick?"

"Um. No-no."

"Is there any possibility you're pregnant?"

My mouth falls open in surprise because it wasn't a question I was expecting. I try to think back to when I last had my period, which was… I can't exactly remember but not too long ago I don't think.

I shrug a little. I guess there's always a possibility isn't there? But the thought of being pregnant… God. I feel myself pale.

"So is that a yes or a no?"

"Carl, c'mon," Miles interrupts. "I asked you to do me a favor, not this shit."

Carl tenses, his jaw tight. He swivels around on his chair to jab accusingly at Miles.

"No. You listen here, Miles. You bring this–this–girl here, to my house at almost four in the Goddamn morning and want me to fix her up for you, then that's what I'm doing. That includes covering how and why she got these injuries—if there's an underlying reason that may be an issue, so I can treat her appropriately." He swings back to me. "These facial injuries are not consistent with an accident. It's quite clear that something is going on here. If you're lying to protect him," he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Then you can tell me and I'll hand him over to the cops myself."

"What?" I exclaim just as Miles scoffs.

"I wouldn't ever lay my hands on a woman, Carl and you know it," he says angrily.

"He's just helping me," I add, still reeling.

"Fine. But this is the last favor I do you," he jabs a finger again at Miles. "Bringing this to my doorstep with my wife upstairs. Unbelievable."

Miles nods, face grim. "If that's how you want it to be."

Doc–Carl–continues his assessment with quick professionalism after his outburst.

"Have you had any nausea since? Dizziness? Can you remember what happened when you woke up?"

"Some nausea, I guess. I feel OK."

"You've probably got a very mild concussion," Doc says quite matter-of-factly, confirming what the internet had already told me. "You might experience some loss of balance, headaches, nausea, and dizziness over the next few weeks. Let's get these stitched up, shall we?"

Doc works quietly, the office stiflingly too small and tense. An occasional look at Miles tells me he's pissed; fists clenched, a tick in his jaw.

The needle going in and out feels strange, pulling and tugging at my skin. I can feel, but it doesn't hurt. I watch with fascination as Doc finishes before dressing it.

"Don't get it wet, try not to use it, change it every two to three days just like I've done now. Stitches will need to come out in a couple of weeks."

He inspects the cut to my eyebrow again.

"I'm going to open this up a little and use dissolvable stitches, as it's already trying to close over, it'll be neater."

It only needed a couple, and he hands me a small mirror after he's done.

"Can't promise it won't leave a scar, but I've done my best."

"Thank you so much." I'm no expert but the stitches look neat and tidy to me. I try to ignore how haggard I look; the bags under my eyes the hollow of my cheeks, how my lips stand out against washed-out skin. I'm a mess.

Miles pushes off the bookcase. "All good?" he asks me.

"Yeah. Um, thank you."

I can sense Doc's eyes dancing between us as he clears up.

"Come on," Miles says, "Let's get outta here."

I follow him to the office door but Doc's voice calls from behind us:

"Can I talk to you before you leave?"

I excuse myself to wait outside in the hallway. Busying myself with looking at the pictures on the walls.

A particularly large one of the Doc on his wedding day in black and white catches my eye. His bride looks absolutely stunning, her face lit up in happiness. I can't remember ever feeling like that, so happy, relaxed, carefree. It must be nice.

I can hear the sound of sharp loud voices down the hall. I slow my footsteps and listened hard.

"—you?" I hear Doc say, muffled.

Miles laughs bitingly. "Fuck you. I'm not—" I can't hear the rest as his voice drops low.

"Well, good—"

"—just mind your own..."

"—bring her here?"

"As if I give a fuck, Carl!"

There're heavy footsteps and I move a bit further away, wondering what they're arguing about.

Miles comes striding towards me, his expression furious. He opens the front door of the house and beckons me to follow.

I trail after him, wary of how his demeanor has switched up, a little apprehensive.

Tonight I've a been a witness to what he does for Vince, just because he's told to, and then this—where he's helped me just because. It jars. The two parts of him don't quite match up, don't quite fit together.

I follow him slowly, thinking maybe I should make my own way home, the buses will be running soon. I keep my distance until he reaches the car and looks around for me, seeing I'm still at the top of the steps.

His attitude changes instantly, his shoulders dropping, his face softening. He sighs, hand in his hair, scrubbing the back of his neck.

"Mia," he says, apologetic, his tone saying things he isn't. I practically melt.

He checks his watch.

"Breakfast?"