After a couple more run-ins and discussions about design and law and everything under the sun, he’d asked me out. We’d gotten ice cream one day after he’d finished working, and I’d fallen hard.
I’d joked about all of this with him once. Told him that it was his glasses that had first caught my eye. That I’d really been digging his whole professorial vibe. But instead of laughing in response, he’djust looked at me strangely. He hadn’t worn that pair as often after that.
“Yeah,” he finally says, responding to my earlier question. “It was fine. The procedure worked.”
He switches to my other arm, but there aren’t as many scratches here.
“I got LASIK,” I offer, and his eyes shoot up to mine. “Got it a few years ago. I was kind of nervous about it, but it ended up being a breeze.” He nods, but he’s quiet, still watching me. As if he’s examining my eyes, looking for some kind of change. Any difference between then and now.
I look away, staring at the white tile lining the floor.
“So, no more contacts,” he says.
“Right,” I respond. “No more contacts.”
He releases my arm and picks up a cotton ball, holding it to the opening of the brown bottle, then flipping the bottle upside down.
“This is going to sting,” he says, and before I can even take a full inhale, he wipes the hydrogen-peroxide-soaked cotton ball up my arm in one swift movement. I curse, the burning quick and unexpected, but try not to do more than that.
He’s only trying to help. Not torture me. Though maybe he is getting a bit of pleasure out of my pain. It’s not like I would know. His face doesn’t reveal anything, but he always was a pro at keeping things hidden. Keeping his true feelings buried deep down.
He sets aside the used cotton ball, and now that my arm has been cleaned, I can see the cuts were tiny. And not that many had been bleeding. The few that were have stopped now. Aside from the slight burning and a bit of tenderness, it doesn’t hurt that bad at all.
I expect Nikhil to move on to my other arm, and I mentally prepare for that area to hurt as well. So I’m shocked when he lowershis head instead. His mouth moves toward the back of my hand, like he’s a courtly knight trying to earn the favor of a princess.
But instead of a kiss, his mouth forms a perfect “O.” And then…he’s blowing. A steady stream of cool air. My arm goes tense, my hand clenching into a fist, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Or stop. He just goes higher, that breath traveling up and down my arm. It’s over in a matter of seconds, and only once he’s moved on to the other arm do I fully understand what he was doing: he was trying to ease the sting.
That realization hits at the same time he streaks a new cotton ball across my other arm and a shocked sound escapes me. He gave me no warning this time, and I’m not sure if that was better or worse.
“Sorry,” he mutters, before blowing against the few tiny wounds on this arm. He’s faster now, but even though it’s fleeting, the sensation of his breath against my skin short-circuits my brain.
I try to stand up as soon as he’s done. I need to get some distance. Need to look at something else besides him. I need a break from…all of this, but then his hand taps my knee.
“Wait.” His fingers lightly come beneath my chin. “There’s a little left.” He tilts my head, studying it in the light. “Looks like the glass just grazed you here, so it’s only a scratch.”
He dabs another cotton ball in the solution, and then his left hand comes back to my face, his palm cradling my uninjured cheek, holding me secure. It burns, just like all the others, but this time I don’t have the luxury of watching his expression. My face is turned to the side, away from his. Though after the last few minutes, I can picture him clearly. See it all in my head. The way his mouth purses as he concentrates. The way his brows crease in sympathy when I tense and do my best not to jerk away. I can picture the shape of his lips as he blows cool air, just as he’s doing right now, only a few millimeters away from my skin.
Finally, he’s done, the cotton ball discarded, joining the pile of used ones beside me. But he hasn’t dropped his hand. It’s still there, spanning the side of my face. His thumb tucked beneath my chin. His fingertips threading into my hair. He holds still for a beat, and then his thumb inches up, rising from my chin, coming to a stop right below the curve of my bottom lip.
His pupils are large, and they grow larger as I suck in a breath. The movement makes my mouth part, bringing my lip into direct contact with the pad of his thumb.
And slowly, he tilts my face down.
He’s going to kiss me,I think as he rises toward me, bridging the space between us.
My eyes instinctively slide shut, and the scent of him fills my lungs. Sawdust and warmth and earth. I lean farther into it, wanting more.
Now. His fingers tighten in my hair. I feel him exhale against my lips.It’s going to happen now.
But then, his arm retracts. My eyes pop open to see his hand fall loosely to his side, his fingers flexing once, then forming into a fist, while I’m left with slightly stinging wounds and the residual warmth from his palm against my cheek.
He stands back up, and I spring up as well.
“Thanks,” I say. “I…I appreciate it.”
“Yeah,” he responds. And then his eyes flit down to my shirt. Really,hisshirt. The fabric is pretty damp, not completely drenched, but it definitely shows the aftereffects of the ministorm that happened in my room, making the shirt mold to my body, clinging to my curves. His headlamp follows his gaze, and it’s as if a spotlight is shining right there, highlighting my chest. A second later, he seems to realize his error. Seems to realize that the headlamp has given him away, because he snaps to attention, his head swinging up fast.
“I’ll get you another shirt,” he says. He retreats to the bedroom, coming back a moment later with a twin of the shirt I’m wearing: another plain white cotton tee. I take it from his outstretched hand, and for a split second I’m tempted to sniff it, to see if it carries the same vetiver scent, but Nikhil’s watching me.
