He kneels in front of me, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
This is too close. Too intimate. The boy I used to know brought me soup when I had the flu sophomore year. He stayed up all night helping me prep for the debate that got me into law school. He kissed me like I was something precious instead of something broken.
That boy is gone.
But his hands are still gentle when he reaches for my arm.
“Let me see.”
I extend my arm reluctantly, and he peels away the blood-soaked hoodie with care.
“Three inches. Clean edges, but deeper than I thought,” he murmurs, reaching for the cleanser. “This is going to sting.”
“I can handle—fuck!”
The antiseptic burns, and I jerk away instinctively. His free hand catches my wrist, holding me steady.
“Don’t move.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
His voice drops an octave, and suddenly, I’m transported back to sophomore year when I twisted my ankle running from campus security after a particularly stupid prank. He carried me six blocks to the nearest urgent care, muttering the entire time about my “pathological need to court disaster.”
I watch as he works, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the careful way he dabs at the wound. His gentle touch contradicts the man who cornered me in an alley an hour ago.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
He doesn’t look up. “Because infection would complicate my investment.”
The words are meant to sting, but they don’t. I can see the lie in the careful way he’s cleaning the wound, in the professional supplies he just happened to have on hand.
“That’s not what I meant.”
His hands still for a moment. When he reaches for the gauze, his movements are more deliberate.
“Because,” he says finally, unrolling the bandage with practiced efficiency, “you’re reckless enough to bleed to death out of spite. And dead martyrs don’t pay their debts.”
Better. More honest.
“Hold this.”
I press my finger to one end of the bandage while he wraps it around my arm. His fingers brush against mine. I bite back the urge to remember what those hands felt like when they touched me with want instead of strategy.
“There,” he says, securing the end with medical tape. “That should hold for a few days.”
He starts to pull away, but I catch his wrist before I can stop myself.
“Rowan.”
He goes very still.
“Why are you really here?”
For a moment, something shifts across his face. Something raw and unguarded. The mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of the boy who used to love me.
Then it’s gone, buried under layers of armor and years of careful construction.
