The man strode over swiftly, ignoring the mess on the ground, and directly took her hand, checking it over and over. Her small hand was pale and slender, unscathed by the burn.
He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, gently rubbing Amelia Clarke's head, not saying anything, and took a rag to clean the dirty floor.
The man's tall figure squatted, and because of the movement in his hands, the fabric of his shirt on his back was taut, with his solid and perfect muscle lines faintly visible, exuding a sense of strength.
Amelia looked at his bustling figure and felt a little embarrassed. She stepped forward, wanting to take the rag from Owen Moreland's hand, "Let me do it."
Owen turned his head to look at her, lifting his hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "The kitchen is small, it can't withstand your commotion."
Amelia's face flushed with embarrassment, and she mumbled quietly, "The bowl was too slippery..."
