“No. It isn’t. I didn’t think before I moved. I can’t believe I let you fall.”
“I’m fine.”
It takes me reiterating “I’m fine” at least ten more times on the hike back for Noah to stop apologizing, and when we finally make it back, he loads me up into his truck with the promise he’ll bring me to my car after I’m all cleaned up.
While he drives, he leans to open the glove box and fumbles with the first aid kit. “Normally, I have my bag with me, but since I was off today, I left it home. There should be gauze in here.”
I search the kit, finding gauze and unwrapping the temporary covering Noah had made for me. When the edges of the wound are exposed to air, I hiss. Tiny flecks of dirt cling to the torn skin, and as my fingers work to open the gauze package, the movement sends a fresh wave of pain from the gash up my arm. Stuffing the fresh gauze in my palm, I fist it, applying pressure as Noah drives faster than allowed.
His cabin truly is close, and in minutes we’re pulling past a ranger station sign warning people this is National Park Serviceaccess only and into a tight-knit grouping of cabins. They’re not very robust and more rustic than I’d imagined.
He lives here?
We pull into a single car gravel driveway next to one of them, and Noah hops out. He lets Max out who wanders around sniffing and marking several of the pines towering between the cabins.
I reach across my body with my left hand, moving to open the door, but Noah beats me to it.
“Your seat is a bit wet,” I say, gesturing back toward my ass print.
“It’ll dry. Come on. I’ve got my large kit inside.”
He runs up the few steps that lead to the door, and he unlocks it with a gold key. I follow him and Max in, impressed with how standard the room is. A living space with bunk beds to the left, a wood-burning stove, and a kitchen to the right. A short hallway leads back toward a bedroom, the door open to display a large bed.
While I glance around, Noah digs around a tactical backpack for supplies and motions me over to the chair near the woodstove. The aroma of charred wood mixed with a cold smoky scent catches in my nose and I fight back a sneeze.
Noah crouches beside me, his brow furrowed in concentration as he takes my bleeding hand in his. He handles me with a firm but careful grip—his skin warm, cradling my trembling palm.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, reaching for a bottle of some sort of antiseptic liquid to rinse the wound.
I wince when he squirts a stream over the cut, washing away the dirt and blood. It stings, but I bite my lip and let him work. He’s attentive and works quickly, tilting my hand toward the tall lamp beside the chair.
“Any more rocks in there?” I grit out.
“Doesn’t look like it.” His voice is low and wavers with his words. Is he upset?
After the cut is clean, he grabs another bottle and drops a few globs of ointment onto it. It stings even more, and I hiss. “A little warning next time would be nice.”
He smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I glare at him, but it morphs into a wide smile.
He bites his lips and reaches for a roll of gauze. His fingers move deftly, securing the bandage nice and snug with practiced efficiency.
“You know? This is the second time you’ve had to tend to me for an injury in Yosemite.” I wink at him, and he allows the pads of his fingertips to skim down the delicate underside of my wrist.
His gaze lingers on my mouth, and without saying anything he sits back on his heels and meets my eyes. “How about some fresh clothes?”
I don’t argue. Instead, I give him a once-over, then stand. The throbbing in my hand has died down, my heart picking up the pace at his mention of clothes. I’d forgotten I was soaked, especially with this warm sensation settling deep in my belly. It grows when he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. My stomach flips, and I drag a hand through my wet hair.
In the bedroom, he leaves the door open, and I stand at the foot of the bed while he digs through the dresser for an extra pair of sweats and a T-shirt, chewing my lip.
There’s a tension in the room, the air charged and thick. He glances back at me watching him, and we stare at one another too long—it burns.
I shift, crossing my arms to feign indifference, but I can’t help the hitch in my breath as he steps forward, lifting the change of clothes in his hand. His gaze flickers to my lips once more, then snaps away, jaw tight, as if he’s holding back.
It’s reckless, but I’m done waiting. I push the fresh clothes out of his hand to the floor—this single action setting the tone. The space between us is too vast, the distance teasing me.
I step into him, closer. So close.
