Behind us, Noah’s voice cuts sharp through the noise, full of warning, while Kiara and Mel wave people back. “Go on! There is nothing to see here.”
We push through the swarm of people and all I can hear is my own heartbeat and Ryan’s breathing beside me, rough and out of sync. I feel his pulse raising against my fingers.
I don’t let go of his hand until we’re well clear of the crowd, until the noise fades into nothing and it’s just the two of us and the dark path leading home.
We reach my house. The porch light is off, the windows dark, everything quiet. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the keys out of the pocket of my shorts, but I try to hide the fact that I’m freaking the fuck out.
It takes me two tries to get the key in the lock.
The door finally opens, and I step inside, immediately moving aside to let him in. Ryan follows me in, closing the door softly behind us, and the quiet of the house settles around us almost instantly. Only the hallway lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow across the floor. Everything else is shadows.
He doesn’t say anything. He just walks into the living room and leans back against the wall, one hand pressing instinctively to his ribs. His head tips back, eyes closing for a second.
“You’re bleeding. Sit down,” I say, the words coming out more like a command.
“I’m fine,” he responds, but his voice is rough and breathless.
“It wasn’t a question. Sit down.”
He hesitates for a second before finally moving to the kitchen bar stool, lowering himself onto it with a quiet exhale.
I disappear down the hallway and grab the small white emergency kit from the cabinet. My fingers are unsteady as I carry it back, my breath catching somewhere between my chest and my throat. When I step into the living room again, he’s sitting there—hair still damp and messy, lip split, a faint smear of blood along his jaw. His head tips back slightly, the movement sharpening the line of it in a way that makes something twist low in my stomach.
He watches me quietly as I set the kit beside him and pull out gauze, antiseptic, cotton pads. His dark eyes track every small movement of my hands. “Mads, you don’t have to—”
“Stop being stubborn,” I murmur, not looking up.
This time, he doesn’t argue.
I sit down in the bar stool beside him and gently take his hand. “How’s your hand?”
“Stings like a bitch,” he says with a tiny smile.
His skin is warm and the second the antiseptic touches his knuckles, he flinches.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay.”
I try to be careful, but my fingers are trembling, betraying me with every small movement as I clean the blood and press fresh gauze against the split skin.
Then I notice the dried blood near his eyebrow—the exact spot where his tiny scar is placed. Which makes my stomach drop even harder. There’s a darker streak trailing down from his cheek. I softly grab his chin and move his head to the side so I can see better.
“You’re bleeding here too,” I say softly.
He sighs. “Didn’t even feel that one.”
I grab another cotton pad and rise from the stool. One small step forward puts me almost between his knees and the space between us disappears.
Carefully, I brush a damp brown curl away from his forehead, my fingers barely touching his skin before I press the cotton to the cut near his brow.
His head tilts back a little more to give me access, and suddenly our faces are nearly level. I can feel the warmth of his breath. His knees part a little wider, just enough that I’m standing inside the space they make, and the realization sends heat rushing up my neck.
And then he looks at me. Our eyes lock, and for a moment neither of us moves or looks away. My fingers are still resting lightly against his cheek, the cotton pad forgotten between us.
“I’m sorry,” he says first.
I don’t answer. We just look at each other. I swallow, forcing myself to respond.
