Page 33 of No Greater Oblivion

We hate what comes next.

I start with his right hand. The glove is removed and then the gauze. One strip at a time, slowly unwinding the material from each of his fingers, then around his palm, all the way down to his wrist where it’s tied in a neat knot. Alejandro snuck away from bed this morning because he knows that otherwise, I’ll subject him to this torture twice a day. Most of the ointment I applied last night dissolved which means the gauze has dried in some places. Around the center of his palm where the burn is the worst, a piece is stuck and when I pull the gauze away, he hisses through his teeth.

“I’m sorry⁠—”

“It’s fine.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Keep going.”

Inside the bowl of warm water is another hand towel. I squeeze out the excess water and gently clean the wound as best I can.

Alejandro looks away.

The doctor called his hands a miracle—no one in the ER had ever seen burns like his before.

He could’ve damaged muscles, tendons, or lost sensation and mobility permanently. Another few seconds of direct heat or if the burns had reached a centimeter deeper…he’s lucky he still has hands. As it is, he doesn’t seem particularly grateful to be on the road to recovery.

I wish I was brave enough to ask him why.

His hands will scar, of that there’s no doubt. The problem is making sure contractures don’t form which would impair his functionality. That and infection are his two main concerns—well. Mine at least. His mind is elsewhere nowadays.

I pat his hand dry with the other towel, apply the ointment, dress the wound, and put the glove back on. If he wants, he can put on a new pair of gloves but I doubt he cares enough to switch them out. I move on to his left hand and repeat the process. I hold my breath every time the gauze tugs on his skin. Gnaw on the inside of my cheek whenever he flinches but doesn’t pull away.

A broken ankle is nothing compared to this.

I take my time because who knows when he’ll let me redress his wounds again. Doctor says he’s supposed to do it twice a day but I’m lucky if I can get him to take the antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medicine he was prescribed. Today would’ve been his last day taking them but instead, the bottles remain almost untouched on my nightstand. Ten days’ worth of pills gone to waste.

The second I finish, he yanks both hands away and starts tugging on the gauze and stretching his fingers.

“How does it feel?”

“How does your boot feel?”

“They are nowhere near the same.”

Alejandro lifts his head to meet my gaze. Seconds pass and he extends his hands, as if to cradle my face between his palms, but I touch his wrists and gently push him away.

“Please. Don’t.”

He shouldn’t be touching, grabbing, reaching. He shouldn’t be doing anything with his hands but my objections fall on deaf ears. If he won’t follow the doctor’s orders, I’ll simply have to enforce them myself, especially if he’s going to keep me prisoner in this house. I should’ve been the one to go to the bathroom and shuffle through our medicine cabinet but getting up from bed wasn’t worth the argument.

Alejandro’s gaze remains fixated on me. He lifts his hands again and I push them away.

“You shouldn’t⁠—”

He gets up from the ottoman and advances toward the bed. Before he can grab hold of me, I catch his wrists and guide his arms away, while still lifting my head to receive his kiss.

Heat burns through me and I open my mouth at the insistent thrust of his tongue. We’ve kissed a million times but when he does so with this much hunger and desperation, I wonder how he manages to make each time feel like the first. With wonder and familiarity, he explores my mouth with long, measured strokes that send a bolt of pleasure through me. He nudges me backward and I follow his lead, almost as desperate to have him inside me as he is.

I move across the bed and he covers his body with mine. Spreading my legs to make room for him, he settles himself between my thighs, the hardness of his erection pushing against my core. Inch by inch, the hem of my dress rises, gathering at the tops of my thighs before pooling around my waist. Alejandro pulls away to touch me but I press my hand against his chest.

“If you touch me, we stop.”

He thinks I don’t know what he’s doing—using sex to distract me from whatever’s going on with him. I’ll indulge him for a while longer because aside from craving the intimacy we’ve lacked the last two weeks, I know he won’t talk about it. Forcing answers out of him has never gotten me anywhere but sex? Works like fucking truth serum.

Careful not to twist my ankle at an uncomfortable angle, I sit up and flip us over, knowing that so long as he’s on the bottom I have a better chance of maintaining control. The boot is bulky and obnoxious but sitting on my knees isn’t too difficult, especially if I put all my weight on my other leg. He opens his mouth to protest and places his hands on my hips as if to flip us over again but I silence him with a kiss.

We don’t undress—we can’t, not in this position and not with our injuries impairing our mobility. What follows is swift and without ceremony; I unbuckle his belt, he lifts his hips, I guide him inside of me. His eyes flicker with surprise upon realizing I have nothing underneath this dress and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t with this in mind. Last night I fell asleep before he got home and the night before last he went to bed with his laptop and typed away until I forced him to stop. And the night before that one, we hadn’t been intimate either.

It’s been so strange. So unintentionally cold between us.