He grabs my wrist, firm but careful, turning my hand over. The skin is red, angry, the burn blooming fast.
His jaw locks.
Ben doesn’t hesitate.
His grip tightens, not rough, but firm as he guides me straight to the sink, flipping on the tap with his free hand.
Cool water rushes over my palm, sharp against the sting, but it’s not what makes me suck in a breath.
It’s him.
The way his fingers bracket my wrist, anchoring me there, his touch careful, possessive in a way that shouldn’t make my stomach twist.
I don’t know what’s worse, the burn or the way his hands feel on me.
A different kind of heat spreads through my body, creeping up my spine, tightening in my chest.
I can’t tell if I want to pull away or lean in.
That’s dangerous.
Ben’s jaw tics, his eyes locked on the angry flush of my skin.
“You should know better than to grab a tray like that,” he murmurs, voice lower now, controlled but threaded with something else.
Concern? Frustration?
I scoff, trying to keep my voice even. “I’ll add it to the list of life lessons.”
Ben doesn’t smile.
Instead, his thumb brushes just barely over the inside of my wrist, and my breath catches.
The water runs cold over my skin, but I feel scalded.
Finally, too soon and not soon enough, he reaches past me, shutting off the tap.
“Where’s your first aid kit?”
I pull back. “Ben, it’s not—”
“Where.”
The weight in his voice stills me.
“Under the sink,” I mutter, reluctantly.
Ben moves fast, retrieving it, pulling out burn cream and a cool compress, and before I can protest, he’s taking my wrist again.
His touch is gentle. Careful. Infuriatingly tender.
I don’t breathe as he smooths the cream over my skin, his fingers warm, steady, deliberate.
He doesn’t say anything. Just studies my hand.
The new burn and the old ones, because I have plenty. Faded scars. Tiny imperfections. Cuts from knives, burns from trays, a history written on my skin. I force a laugh. “Occupational hazard. You should see my mum’s hands. It’s a family trait.”
Ben doesn’t laugh.
