I watch him, heart thudding, unsure where to look.
His hands are rough, yet gentle when he tilts my foot into the light. He studies the reddened skin, brushing his thumb just beside it, but not touching the scratch itself. I catch my breath.
“This might sting,” he says, opening the wipe.
I flinch when it touches the mark, and his shoulders go tense. “Sorry,” he murmurs, quieter now. “Almost done.”
I nod even though he’s not looking at me. He’s apologising for helping, for trying to fix something he didn’t do. For caring, gently and without blame.
He’s not yelling. Not accusing. Not telling me it’s my fault.
I’ve spent years bracing for the moment kindness turns sharp. But this, this is soft. It’s steady. It’s … safe.
But he won’t meet my eyes, like he knows that if he does, we’ll both acknowledge the weight sitting between us. His fingers hover a little longer than necessary when he places a plaster over the sore.
When he finally lifts his head, I’m already watching him.
And he knows.
I see it in the way his expression softens, just for a second, and then he clears his throat, still holding my foot like it’s something fragile.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he says quietly. “Back at the field with Jensen. I was … angry. But not at you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
His fingers are warm against my skin, and I feel just the lightest stroke of his thumb against the inside of my ankle.
My breath stutters, and I swear my pulse skips.
“I took it out on you,” he adds, voice low. “And I hate that I did. There’s no excuse for it.”
I swallow hard. The air is thick between us.
There’s something raw in his expression—regret, maybe. Or something close to it.
I give him a small smile.
Not because it’s okay.
But because I needed to hear it.
I glance down at my foot, still cradled in his hands. His thumb rests just above my ankle, unmoving now, but he hasn’t let go.
He notices me looking. His gaze follows mine, and for a second, we’re both just staring at the same spot, like neither of us knows what to do next.
The silence stretches too long, and I clear my throat, trying to break the tension.
“You sure you don’t need first aid yourself?” I ask, tilting my head. “You hit your head pretty hard under there.”
His mouth twitches, then he lets out a quiet laugh. It’s low and rough, but it’s real.
“Nah. Just bruised my pride.”
I smile, and the tension loosens just a little.
Then he finally lets go of my foot, stepping back, but the warmth of his touch endures like a ghost.
I watch him pack away the first aid kit, his movements slower now, like he’s not sure what comes next.
