Lena stands at the counter, completely intact, shaking out her hand with an annoyed little hiss.
“Damn it,” she mutters under her breath. “Stupid tray?—”
I grab her wrist before I can stop myself.
She startles, eyes flying up to meet mine. “Thorne?—?”
Her hand is small in mine, the heat of the burn radiating against my fingertips. Her skin is already turning an angry pink, and something inside me snaps tight.
“You burned yourself.” My voice comes out gruffer than I mean it to.
Lena rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing.”
I don’t let go. Because it is not nothing.
It’s a burn. It’s pain. It’s her in pain, and my body doesn’t know what to do with that information.
I drag her over to the sink and flip the faucet on, pushing her hand under the cool stream of water.
She sputters. “Excuse me, sir?—”
“You’re excused,” I grumble.
She scowls up at me. “You’re being dramatic.”
I ignore that. Because if I open my mouth, I might admit that seeing her flinch like that made my chest cave in.
Instead, I grab a chair, plant it in front of the sink, and push her down into it.
Lena blinks. “Thorne, I don’t need to?—”
“Sit.”
“I—”
“Sit.”
She huffs but obeys, keeping her hand under the water as I stride across the kitchen, rummaging through my bag.
When I return, I set down two bottles on the counter.
Lena leans forward, squinting. “Wait. Is that...lavender oil?”
I grunt, uncapping the bottle. “Good for burns.”
She stares.
Then, slowly, suspiciously, she asks, “And the other one?”
“DMSO.” I grab her hand again, gently patting it dry before tipping a small amount of the clear, slightly viscous liquid onto my fingertips. “This will stop the burn from sinking deeper.”
She watches me work, for once, completely silent.
I smooth the DMSO over the reddened skin, then dab a few drops of lavender oil over it, massaging gently. The scent rises between us—warm, herbal, calming.
Lena shifts slightly in her seat.
“You always carry this stuff?” she asks, voice softer now.
