Dan turns his head slowly toward him, but Tom doesn’t look away. “You’re done working today.” The words aren’t loud, but they settle into the room like something solid being set down.
Dan studies him for a moment, then exhales and leans back on his hands while I begin stitching the wound closed. “Bossy,” he mutters.
Tom’s shoulder lifts in an easy shrug. “Someone has to be.”
I swab the skin around the puncture and draw the lidocaine into the syringe. “This part will sting,” I tell Dan. He grunts in acknowledgment while Tom keeps his arm steady. The needle slides in just beside the wound and I inject slowly, raising a smallpale swelling beneath the skin. Dan’s jaw tightens for a moment, then eases as the numbing takes hold. When I test the area with the tip of the forceps, he barely reacts.
“Good,” I murmur, threading the needle holder and setting the first stitch. The needle curves cleanly through the skin, pulling the edges of the wound together. Tom remains steady behind him, one hand still bracing Dan’s arm, the other resting lightly on his shoulder like a quiet anchor while I place the next stitch and then another.
I tie off the last stitch and clean the skin before wrapping a fresh bandage around Dan’s forearm. “You’ll also need a tetanus booster,” I add while securing the gauze.
Dan groans again, but Tom’s thumb presses lightly into the muscle of his shoulder. “Behave.”
Dan sighs and tips his head back toward the ceiling. “Yes, sir.”
The words settle into the quiet room, and something shifts inside my chest. For years I’ve been the one making sure Dan slowed down, took his medicine, rested when he should. Watching him accept the correction from Tom so easily sends a strange ripple through me. Apparently, I’m not the only one holding everything together anymore. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I swallow hard.
Chapter Seven
Dan
Mel finishes the wrap by pulling the bandage snug around my forearm, her fingers firm and careful as she presses the last strip of tape into place. The pressure settles in a heartbeat later, not sharp anymore but deep and insistent, a heavy pulse that spreads beneath the numbness and works its way up toward my shoulder.
I keep my arm still on the table even though every instinct tells me to shift it, to ease the weight of it, to do something. Moving would only make it worse, and I’m not giving either of them the satisfaction of seeing that.
Her thumb smooths along the edge of the tape, checking the seal before it can lift. She goes over it once, then again, precise, exact, her focus fixed on the work. I watch her hands instead of her face, waiting for the small pause that used to come after, the brush of her fingers that had nothing to do with bandages or tape.
She doesn’t pause.
Her hand lifts, already moving on, and the absence lands sharper than the pressure ever did. My chest tightens before I can stop it, my breath catching low as I keep my arm where she left it.
I draw in a slow breath through my nose and let it out just as carefully, forcing everything back into place.
She turns to the tray instead, reaching for a syringe. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
I don’t look at her. “Don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.” The soft click of glass carries as she fits the vial and draws the dose. “Sleeve up.”
I shift just enough to free my other arm, jaw tightening as I push the fabric higher. The table creaks under the movement.
Her fingers press briefly against my shoulder, cool where she swabs the skin. The smell of alcohol cuts through everything else for a second.
The needle slips in, quick and clean. A dull burn spreads as she pushes the plunger down.
She pulls the syringe free, drops it on the tray, and reaches for a folded sling. The fabric snaps open with a soft flick of her wrist. “Wear this,” she orders, already guiding my arm into place. “You keep using that arm, you’ll tear the stitches.”
I nod instead of answering. My voice would come out rougher than I want, and she’d hear it. She always does.
She steps back, and the space she leaves behind settles in around me. I keep my eyes on the table, on the edge of the tray, anywhere but her, and hold my arm exactly where she left it.
Tom’s hand stays on my shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed it while she worked. Now it’s the only thing I feel. The weight of it presses through my shirt, steady and unmoving, holding me in place without tightening. My muscles draw up under his palm before I can stop them. I go still.
His thumb shifts, dragging once along the line of my shoulder.
My breath catches.
