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I get the emerald stare. It’s all mine. And I soak it up like a neglected house plant.
Yes. Fine. He’s probably checking to make sure my pupils are still dilating, but staring into his eyes feels like home.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” His voice is so calm and steady. It’s everything I need right now. But all at once, the weight of the day hits me like a sucker punch, and my lower lip begins to tremble. I can feel tears brimming my eyes at a rate too fast for me to blink away.
His hand finds my shoulder and squeezes, and before he can pull away, I melt into him, pressing my head to his chest, not caring whether he thinks it’s weird or not.
He smells the same. Exactly like my Dax. Irish Spring soap. The faintest hint of cologne. And when I begin to worry that I’ve overstepped his gesture of chivalry, his arms wrap around me, and he holds me close, firm, yet light enough that I know it’s my call on how long our embrace lasts.
And as odd as it is—the bleeding, the oat milk and eggs puddling at my feet—I need this. To be held. To feel safe. To know that Dax will always have my back when my world implodes. So I stay, tucked into the little nook between his arm and his chest, greedily breathing him in. Bathing in this feeling I’ve been missing.
“You’re a good guy, Daxon McGuire.” My voice is muffled against his chest. And as I pull away to look at him, his arms stay wrapped around me, and it makes me think.
I’m very much in the proximity of his mouth. It’s possible that if I pressed up onto my toes, my lips could easily meet his. Aunt Livi was pretty adamant about performing the cleanse in the proper order, but would it be so terrible if I kissed him now andbanked it for later? Instead of waiting for the moon to be right to make my wish and my chicken dinner sacrifice?
“You look like you’re thinking pretty hard about something.” Dax lets go of my shoulders, though his hands pause on either side of me as if he’s half expecting I’ll tip over.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just happy I didn’t bruise my bananas.”
“Wouldn’t want to be forced to make premature banana bread.”
He’s making fun of me.
But his smile is playful, that is, until he removes his perfect shirt from my face and gives my cut another once-over.
“The bleeding has slowed but not stopped. It’s more of a scrape than a cut, so I don’t think you need stitches.” His eyes meet mine. “Do you have any Band-Aids at home?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
His gaze flicks to his car. “Pretty sure I have a stash. Why don’t I give you a ride?”
I nod as he reaches for the passenger door and holds it open like a valet. In any timeline, I imagine Dax is always a gentleman.
Once he’s in his own seat, he leans across the console, pops open the glove compartment, and digs until he pulls out a strip of Band-Aids.
“I wasn’t sure if I still had these.” He holds the strip between his teeth, then yanks one off with a quick jerk of his head.
“Aren’t you the Boy Scout.”
He pulls the Band-Aid from the packaging, letting the little white papers fall to his lap. “I didn’t make it to Scouts. I quit after Beavers, so no promises.”
He tilts back my chin and applies the Band-Aid with the softest press of his fingers. Satisfied, he reaches for a second Band-Aid. I watch him—he’s absorbed in careful concentration, brows pulled low, biting on his lip. God, I’ve missed him. This comfortable easebetween us. It’s only been forty-eight hours, but they were long hours, and the ones where he didn’t know me felt empty and wrong.
“You thinking about bananas again?” Dax looks up briefly from his work to smirk at me.
“Nope. Just thinking about a friend. You remind me of him.”
Dax looks up. “Ah, so he’s incredibly handsome.”
“Some would say.”
Dax sits back in his seat and gives my face a satisfied nod.
“I think you’re all patched up.”
My hand finds my chin, and as my fingers skim over the covered surface, they encounter a lot more Band-Aid than anticipated.
I flip down the overhead passenger mirror and fight back a snort. The wound that required a single Band-Aid is now covered with four.
