"You really can call me Ernest, you know!" he told her, with a bit of a scrunch of his nose at the extremely formal use of Mr Hemingway. "But almost everyone calls me Hem," he added.
It was strange having a woman hold the door for him, even with his obvious injury. She was just being kind and thoughtful, but he really did hate that he wasn't strong enough to be a proper gentleman right now. He had even. Even about to protest and insist that she sat down, but the squeeze to his shoulder was familiar and comforting and he realised that she wanted to take care of him. How strange. "All right, if you're sure. Thank you, miss," he smiled, and finally took the weight off of that blasted leg.