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He tried the doorknob, which I had locked. Silence. Then, “Laurel, if you’re conscious, you’ve got like three seconds—”
“Yep,” I said loudly. “Hey, yeah, I’m in here.”
“… You okay?”
“Totally,” I said, my voice slightly manic.
More silence. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.” I paused. “Hey, can I have a Band-Aid?”
His voice took on a suspicious dip. “Why?”
“I have a… pimple.” Blood started to drip on the sink. I panicked and started trying to wipe it up.
“Uh, okay. I’ll be right back.”
While he was gone, I tried to dam the flow of bright red blood, but it was everywhere. The more I moved, turning to get more toilet paper, the more it bled down my arm, dripping on the sink and floor.
When he knocked, I was trying to balance a new fistful of toilet paper on the gushing cut while using my foot to wipe at a smear on the floor. “Can you just slip it under the door? Thanks.” I sounded breathless.
“Laurel,” he said, his voice laced with suspicion.
“You’re awesome, thanks!” I said brightly, like none of this was a total catastrophe.
The Band-Aid slid under the door, and I snatched it up. It was super small. What the hell?Oh, I told him it was a pimple. Makes sense.I used my teeth to help me peel back the paper from the little Band-Aid.
Total shit show. I managed to get the backing paper off, but the blood was everywhere, and the more I wiped, the more appeared, until I lost patience and tried to smack the Band-Aid on top. It slid right off the angry gash. I groaned.
“Hey, cutie, I don’t know what you got going on in there, but you’re obviously losing the battle.”
It looked like I had butchered an animal in the bathroom. I leaned against the door in defeat. “Hey, Lachlan?”
“Yeah?”
“If you laugh at me, I’m going to punch you.”
I heard the struggle to keep his face straight in the way he croaked out, “M’kay.”
I unlocked the door and shoved away from it, pressing the bloody mess of toilet paper above my eyebrow.
He poked his head in, and then his amber eyes widened. They bounced all over. The floor, the sink, my face, my feet, and back to my face. “What the fu—”
“Don’t. Laugh.” I gritted out.
His lips sucked between his teeth. I saw the struggle to keep himself from reacting, and then he seemed to slip on his calm, collected mask. “What happened.”
“I was trying to fix my hair.” He gave me a confused face. “I smacked my forehead on the counter trying to… flip my hair.”
The monumental effort the man went through to keep from laughing was award worthy. The twitching and ripples that contorted his features in minute movements were fascinating to watch. Finally, with a bracing breath, he held out a hand. He motioned with his head for me to exit the bathroom, like he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth.
Before I could cross the threshold, he yanked the fluffy, gorgeous hand towel off its ring and replaced my toilet paper gauze with it. I started to protest that we’d ruin it, but he made a “no” sound in his throat and pushed me forward.
The towel worked a lot better than toilet paper at stemming the bleeding, thankfully. He guided me down the stairs, his hands on my shoulders, and then we stopped in the kitchen near the island. He pointed to the floor at my feet, “Stay.”
I gave him a mock salute.
“Smartass,” he muttered, and ran back upstairs.
