“Yeah?” Her reply is muffled through the thin door.
“I need a towel.”
“Yeah. Hold on.” A few moments later, her voice sounds closer. “My eyes are closed. Poke your hand out, and I’ll give it to you.”
I do, and she shoves a fluffy white towel into my grasp. Not sure how she’s navigating so well with closed eyes—unless she’s peeking, that little pervert. The thought almost makes me smile.
I dry off and glance at my pants hanging on a hook, stained with blood, sweat, and maybe vomit. Same with the shirt on the floor. Shit. No way I’m putting those back on.
“Bea?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have any clothes.”
A silence stretches before her quiet “Oh.”
“I’ll wrap the towel around myself for now.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can find anything for you.”
I highly doubt it, given our size difference. Unless she has a boyfriend who stays over, leaving clothes behind. The thought slams into my gut with nauseating force—jealousy, sharp andirrational, makes me grip the wall. There’s no way I’d wear his shit. I’d rather walk naked through the streets.
I wrap the towel around my hips and step out. As soon as she takes me in, her cheeks pinken, turning that adorable shade she wears so well, like a blush of dawn.
“O-okay. Sit right there.” She points at the bed, her voice a touch unsteady. “I’ll check your cuts.”
I do as I’m told, resuming my position on the edge, but when I spread my legs comfortably, I remember the towel and clap them shut. The sudden movement jars my ribs, and I clench my teeth against the pain.
She places a small red first aid bag open next to me. “I found a butterfly Band-Aid that might keep your cut closed. Let’s see. If it’s still bleeding in an hour, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
She stands to my right, allowing me to relax my legs slightly before they start shaking from the effort. I’m too focused on that to notice when she presses a cotton swab to the cut on my brow. It stings like fire, and I hiss.
“Sh-sh,” she whispers… and starts blowing on the cut; her breath lands on my skin, cool and soothing.
I stop breathing as my body goes rigid.
With her face inches from mine, she dabs again and blows once more. I stare ahead, scared to move, scared to shatter this fragile moment.
After what feels like an eternity, she pulls away, and I exhale shakily.
“Looks like it’s slowing down. I’ll leave it to dry a bit and then go over it with more peroxide.” Then she moves to my lip, gently dabbing and blowing again.
Fuck, Bea. Don’t do that.That’s what I want to yell. But I keep my mouth shut, enduring the torture of her kindness.
When she’s done with my lip, she returns to the brow, cleaning it before applying the butterfly Band-Aid, and her fingers fly over the wound light as feathers.
In normal circumstances, her close proximity—her tits at my eye level, her soft body brushing mine—would have me hard as a rock. But it’s the gentleness, the little gestures of care, that stir something deeper. Feelings I don’t like and don’t even recognize. Tenderness? Gratitude? Something more? I’m not accustomed to this—people fussing over me without an agenda.
When she’s finished, her eyes roam over my torso, tracing the blooming bruises. “You need a doctor, Noah. You need an X-ray for your ribs. Plus, you probably have a concussion.”
“My ribs aren’t broken, and I do have a concussion. And there’s nothing doctors can do for me now.” Been there, done that—endless waits in ERs, prescriptions for rest I ignore. Waste of time.
“Okay. But you need someone to take care of you while you’re like this.”
She’s right. And then I get this ‘brilliant’ idea, born of desperation and delirium. “You can take care of me.”
“Me?” Her eyes go wide, surprise flashing across her face.
