That’s when I spot it near a patch of dune grass—bright red splattered across pale sand.
Blood.
My chest tightens as I crouch down, examining it. It’s too much blood to be from a papercut or a kid’s scraped knee. I glance ahead, noticing the trail of crimson droplets leading further up the dune. I follow it without thinking, my pace quickening with every step.
At the top of the dune, Hunter is sitting cross-legged on the ground, his face pale. Blood dribbles down his arm as he fumbles with a wrinkled Band-Aid wrapper. His hands are shaking, and the adhesive keeps sticking to his palm instead of the cut near the base of his thumb.
“Jesus,” I exhale.
He startles, looking up at me with wide eyes. “Oh, hey, Mason. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” I kneel and instinctively take his hand, tilting it toward the light. The cut gapes, angry and raw. “What the hell happened?”
He bites his lip. “I was using a pocket knife to take a plant tissue sample, and… it slipped.”
“It’s deep,” I mutter. “I’ve got supplies in my truck. Follow me.”
He shakes his head frantically. “No, really—it’s fine. The DNR has a first aid station, I can just—”
“Dude, stop talking.” My voice comes out firm and assertive. “You’re bleeding all over my beach. Get up.”
He sighs dramatically before standing, cradling his hand against his chest. I stay close as we trek down the dune, Hunter’s overstuffed backpack thumping with each step. By the time we cross the lot, a thin trail of blood drips down his wrist.
I pop the tailgate of my truck and grab the first aid kit. Flipping it open, I glance at him. “Sit.”
He plants his sneakers on the asphalt, shaking his head. “I can patch it up myself. You don’t have to—”
Rolling my eyes, I toss the kit onto the tailgate and step forward, crowding his space. “This is literally my job. I’m trained in first aid. Stop being stubborn.”
He frowns, brows creasing. “I’m not stubborn. I just don’t need your help.”
God, this guy is infuriating.
Before he can dart away, I grab his hips and hoist him onto the tailgate. He even lighter than I expect, and the move startles him enough that he lets out a high-pitched yelp.
“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, glaring up at me, cheeks flushed pink. “Do you just go around grabbing people like that?”
“I do when they’re injured and being difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult—”
“You are.” I nudge his knees apart and slide between them, grabbing an antiseptic wipes. “Now, hold still. This is gonna sting.”
I catch his wrist, his skin cold beneath my touch. The pulse there hammers against my thumb. His hands are smaller than mine, delicate, his nails painted a pale lavender that looks almost out of place against the streaks of blood.
Hunter exhales sharply through his nose as I press the wipe to the wound. He hisses, shoulders tensing.
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, quickly swiping away the blood. I clean the long trail that’s dried along his forearm. The whole time, I feel his eyes on me. “You’re lucky it’s not deeper. You’d need stitches otherwise.”
“You sound like my mom,” he says, wincing again.
I ignore him, digging through the first aid kit for gauze and medical tape. “Try not to move.”
His eyes flicker up to mine, golden brown like amber. “You’re really bossy, you know that?”
“Comes with the job,” I reply, coiling the gauze tightly around his thumb.
That earns me a soft laugh, a quiet puff of relief between his gritted teeth. When I finish taping the bandage, I let go of his hand and take a step back. I busy myself with snapping the kit shut, grateful for the excuse not to meet his eyes.
