“I think you need to find different words,” I retort to give myself something to say and center on. I attempt to study his abrasion, but it’s blurring because I’m highly aware of Ozzy staring at me.
“Why?”
“You don’t remember?—”
“I remember,” he cuts in, prompting me to lift my gaze again and fall right back into those ocean-blue eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I mutter before he jerks his head to his injured shoulder, urging me to get what I want to done. It reminds me that he didn’t want to do this in the first place, and he’s doing it to appease me.
However, I can’t help but feel uneasy. Ozzy isn’t black and white but hues of gray. One minute, I gather he wants to say things. Other times, I assume he thinks I’m a dumbass.
The latter may be—is—true.
Regardless, fixing him up has to be done or his wound will never heal properly. And the last thing he needs is to get some sort of infection in his bloodstream.
I’m here to prevent that and any more problems.
Lifting my arm, I gently press the cotton balls into his gash and see the goosebumps pebble and protrude around his skin.
I’m careful with the pressure, trying my best to be as quick and precise as I can. When I’m done, I withdraw a bit to get to the hydrogen peroxide sitting on the kitchen island, but Ozzy’s palm suddenly cups the back of my left thigh, eliciting a soft gasp to immediately leave my lips.
At the contact, I’m shell-shocked he hasn’t removed it as quickly as it came.
It’s still there.
There’s nothing I can do but study his face and search for what he wants. The thing is, I didn’t want to lean over and brush up against him to grab it even though I could’ve easily done so.
I just didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by forcing my weight.
“I’ll be right back,” I convey as casually as I can. “I’m just going to grab?—”
“It’s right there.” He moves his head toward it again, hinting he already knows where it is behind him.
However, I’m not entirely sure he’s giving the bandwidth of my arm much credit.
“I don’t want to crush you?—”
Ozzy quirks a knowing brow, cutting right into the excuse meant more for him than me.
My first concern, always, is making sure he’s free from stress. He’s not like the guys, obviously. I know there’s trauma and a lack of trust. I’m not Vivian Muncy by a long shot, but I’m still a woman.
Without a rebuttal, I call Ozzy out on his sudden confidence in the inevitable and bend forward, making quick work of plucking the brown bottle of peroxide off the table and straightening my spine.
And now I need more cotton balls.
Shit.
With a silent exhale of anxiety, I bow toward the bag and extract those, too. However, I don’t miss the shudder racking through Ozzy’s body and reverberating into mine the moment our bodies come into contact again.
I’ve never had a vibe like this before with anyone in my fucking life, and it’s as nerve-wracking as it is confusing.
“How are we doing?” I ask absentmindedly, earning a prompt and small nod from Ozzy. “We’ll add this and bandage you up. Then you’re all set. We’ll clean it tomorrow, okay?”
Another nod of silence.
I make quick work of cleaning the rest of his injury, go another round of leaning over him to grab the bandages and finish in record time.
It’s not perfect.
