Hemingway was happy to let her stay there against his chest for as long as she pleased. Actually, the closeness was helping him physically calm down again, his heart slowing, the head rush subsiding. And admittedly, as the adrenaline drained away from him again, the pain became apparent.
He gave her a smile, wondering how it was that no man had ever felt this desperate need to protect her before. Not that she needed it, most of the time- it didn't stop the feeling being there, though. "It'll be all right," he assured her, wiggling his fingers for her as evidence, curling them into a fist and relaxing them again. "Just bruised is all," he confirmed.