“Right.”
Trying to be gentler than I’m used to, I dab it dry, smooth a swipe of ointment over it, and wrap it in gauze. The whole time, I’m close enough to smell her—shampoo and coffee and something sharp underneath, like ozone before a storm.
“Done,” I say, stepping back half a step. “You’ll live.”
“Tragic,” she says. Her voice is softer now. She looks down at the T-shirt in my hand. “That for me?”
“Unless you want to sleep in blood and panic sweat, yeah.”
Her nose wrinkles. “When you put it like that…”
I help her draw the shirt over her head, careful of the bandage, and try not to notice how it hangs on her frame. My shirts are big on most people. They’re huge on her, swallowing her waist, sleeves skimming past her elbows.
It feels like a brand.
She hops down from the counter before I can offer a hand, bare feet touching the cool wood. “Thank you,” she says. It sounds like she means more than just the bandage.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I drop down onto the couch and pick up the remote.
“To answer your earlier question…” I flip the TV on, volume low. “Tallulah’s pretty. Old-fashioned. Unique.”
She pads over and settles on the other end of the couch, tucking her feet under her. “It’s never felt like me,” she complains. “I don’t think you realize what a favor you did when you gave me that awful nickname.”
“Twig?” I land on a rerun of a football game and lean back. “You were all skin and bones back then.”
“It morphed into Twiggy,” she says. “Someone’s mother said I reminded her of a model by that name and after that, it stuck.” Her expression turns distant, just for a second. “I could pretend I was skinny on purpose.”
We’re quiet for a while, the flicker of the TV painting the walls in blue and white. The announcers drone on about yardage and penalties. I couldn’t care less.
I’m too aware of her, a foot away. The way she keeps rubbing her thumb over the edge of the bandage. The way her shoulders are still too high, like her body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re not on high alert for the next few minutes.
Her fingers find a frayed thread on her leggings and start twisting it.
When I can’t take it anymore, I reach over and cover her hand with mine, stilling the restless motion.
“Twig doesn’t fit you anymore,” I say quietly. “You’re a beautiful, unusual, fascinating woman, Tallulah.”
The words are out before I can pull them back. I pause, inwardly cursing myself, but it’s too late.
“And it’s driving me crazy,” I add, because apparently we’re committing to bad decisions tonight, “to sit here beside you and not touch you.”
Her body goes still as stone, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster under my T-shirt. Beneath my palm, her fingers curl against her knee.
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask. I know I’m playing with fire. I know exactly where this road leads. I’m chasing a fall that could leave both of us in pieces.
She shakes her head a little, a humorless huff of breath escaping. “I’m thinking…we…Kael would kill you.”
She doesn’t sayI don’t want this.She doesn’t sayI’m not interested.
She saysKael.
I can’t help but notice the order of priorities there.
I drag my gaze back to the TV. A ref throws a flag. The crowd roars. It all feels very far away.
“I’m aware,” I say.
Seconds stretch, strung tight with tension arcing between us. My hand is still on hers; hers is still under it.
