Neither of us moves.
My pulse beats so hard I can feel it in my extremities.I cannot do this. Shouldn’t have done this.
But the thought is swiftly followed by another, louder and more insistent.
This isn’t enough.
Her hands move across my shoulders, and my shirt pulls tight, the collar scratching against my throat like she’s grabbed fistfuls of the fabric at the back.
Fuck.
Our breaths are thunderous, chests billowing against one another. Every part of our bodies far, far too close.
“Should I let go?” I cringe at how stupid it sounds; how obvious it is, at least to me, that I don’t want to.
“Yes,” she replies, the word an almost-desperate gasp. “Yes. I think you should. I think that’s a good idea. I think we’ve done enough.”
“Enough,” I reply, hoping the word will sink in.
This could never be enough.
I shift an inch, but she’s still clinging to me.
“You have to let go of my shirt,” I say, and she lets out the tiniest embarrassed-sounding moan as her hands shift and the fabric loosens.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
I release her, but my knees are hollow, and my hands slip, knocking something on the counter. My glass. Water floods everywhere; the glass rolls to the edge of the counter, and as I grab for it in the semi-darkness, it smashes.
I don’t feel the pain at first.
Diana is the one who notices.
“Shit, you’re bleeding.” She slides off the counter and takes my hand, which sure enough has a cut across the palm. Blood is spilling out from a neat wound.
Turning to the sink, she grabs a clean cloth from the cupboard underneath and presses it to my palm. “You should check there’s no glass in it.”
“I really hope we got that in one take,” I say, wincing at the sting in my hand, “because I can’t do it again.”
She glances at me, eyes wide like she can’t believe I’m even thinking about her video. She tugs me to the sink and makes me rinse my hand under the faucet. I suck in a sharp breath, but the wound is bleeding less already, and soon the water runs clear.
“It’s a scratch,” I say. “It’s not that deep. It’s fine.”
“You might need stitches,” she says, gently teasing my fingers open so she can inspect my palm. All I’m aware of is the soft press of her touch.
“I won’t.” I tug free of her grip. I can’t have her touching me, not now, not after the intensity of what just happened. I shouldn’t have agreed to any of it, and the self-reproach has me fisting my hand; it stings and seeps a little more blood, but it’s not nearly as bad as it looked at first.
“You should find a bandage,” she says, switching on the overhead lights, which blast us into a harsher reality. The moment we shared can’t exist here. It’s well and truly over. “Or better yet, tell me where I’ll find one.”
Reluctantly, I tell her there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom, and she fetches it, insisting on wrapping my hand herself.
Against my better judgement, I let her, because she wants to, and it’ll be easier than doing it myself. She’s gentle, and I can’t remember the last time anyone took care of me like this. Not that I’ve needed it, but it’s so comforting that I don’t want her to finish. When she does, she sweeps away the glass and wipes down the surfaces.
“Well,” she says. “That was eventful.”
I nod. “I don’t think I’m meant to create content.”
She smirks, excitement sparking in her eyes. “Shall we see how you did?” She removes her phone from the tripod and replays the footage.
