Embers of my gown!

After a long, relaxing shower, I slipped out of the bathroom wrapped in a soft lounge gown and a towel wrapped around my hair. I turned on a mellow playlist, the notes drifting through the living area like warm breath. 

I sat on the couch, letting my back slump against the plush backrest, my head resting on its top edge. I crossed my legs and placed them on the fire table in front of me, feeling the low hum of the flame flicker against my skin.

The fire’s gentle heat seeped through the table, mingling with the music to create a soothing melody. My eyes grew heavy, and I nodded off for a moment.

A sudden sting near my calf jolted me awake. My gown had caught fire! I picked the cushion beside me, smothering the flames with a frantic swipe. 

A sigh escaped my lips as the heat faded, but the irritation on the inner side of my right calf lingered, and the skin turned slightly red.

I wiped the spot with a clean wipe, the cool fabric a brief relief. I removed the towel from my head, diffused my hair a little, tossed the burnt gown onto the bedroom floor, and slipped into a fresh one. 

As I settled back onto the couch, I slept there. The soft rustle of fabric the only sound besides the crackling fire.

After hours, as I woke up in the evening, his worried face came into focus - must've arrived from work. Concern filled his eyes, searching for answers, as he was sitting on the edge of the fire table, an ointment in his hand and the burnt gown lying beside him.

“What happened to you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on me, as his empathetic gaze enveloped me. 

I sat up, smiled over my absent mindedness and said, “I just napped for a moment and my gown caught fire”. 

And then, I placed my foot on his thigh, while trying to look at my calf, his fingers gently wrapped around my lower calf just above the heel. As I caught sight of the burned area, it had already turned into a wide blister, covered with ointment – which he must have applied while I slept.

"Okay.. come on... We need to see a doctor", he said while placing the ointment beside him on the table.

I looked up at him; he sensed the terror in my eyes as I got scared seeing the wide blister. “I... I thought it was just a heat rash… I ignored it. What do I do now?” I muttered, feeling the sting of the burn pulse with each heartbeat.

“Don’t worry, we’ll go to the doctor. He’ll take care of it,” he reassured, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

"Uh-huh… it itches when I touch it,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay, let me get a shawl so you don’t get cold. We’ll go see the doctor,” he said, wrapping the soft shawl around my shoulders. As he tried to lift me into his arms, and I rested my hand on his chest in order to stop him.

“I think I can walk,” I protested, trying to rise.

“Yes, you can, but the blister might pop. Let me help you,” he insisted, scooping me up without waiting for an answer.

*At the clinic*

The doctor cleaned the wound, his gloves cool against my skin, and explained that the blister needed to be drained and the dead skin removed.

I looked up at Mustafa, fear flickering in my eyes. He squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing reassuring circles on my knuckles.

“Why? I don’t want it…” I whispered.

“It’s necessary,” he said, kissing my hand. “It’s wide; it could burst on its own and get infected”, he added.

“Can’t it just stay like this?” I asked, hoping to avoid the procedure.

“It’ll pop anyway, and an infection could make things worse,” he replied, his voice steady as he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Nothing will happen. I’m here for you… okay,” he assured.

I nodded, the weight of the moment settling like a heavy blanket.

The doctor re‑entered, his instruments glinting under the harsh clinic lights. 

“Is it really necessary?” I asked, my voice trembling.

The doctor nodded.

“Okay,” I whispered nervously.

As he began, my hand fluttered nervously, fingers hovering mid‑air before dropping to cover my lips, then brushing my forehead.

 “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I said, as the doctor was removing the upper skin.

“Look at me. Don’t look at that,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine, trying to pull my focus away from the procedure.

I shook my head, a shiver running down my spine, and then I buried my face in his neck, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding me as the doctor worked.

The doctor removed the skin, clean the wound, the sting of the antiseptic burning like a cold bite. And then he wrapped it with a white patch. 

I placed my pillow over the blanket on his side of the bed, at the foot. I rested my head on it and lay down with one hand against my pillow and the other near my chin. My legs were slightly angled, with my feet touching the side table beside me. The flair of the gown was almost touching the ground. I slept really well, losing track of time. 

When I woke up, I realized I was enveloped in a blanket - it was from the guest room, as I was lying on our blanket. Seeing his pillow near my back, I realized it was him. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

I got up, left the room, walked through the kitchen and living room, and entered the guest room. He was lying there, sleeping. Seeing him sleeping, I slipped in beside him. As i did, he wrapped me in his arms without opening his eyes.