I want to help her. I just don’t have Milo’s words or Ben’s jokes.
I have my hands. That’s all I’ve ever had.
The bandages.
I said I’d rewrap them after breakfast. Hours ago now. I’ve been putting it off—not because I forgot, but because I knew what it would mean. Being close to her. Touching her skin. Breathing her in.
But the gauze is graying, loosened from wear, and she keeps absently scratching at the edges. She needs them changed.
I stand before I can second-guess myself. “Your hands.”
She looks up at me, startled. “What?”
“The bandages. I said I’d change them.” I nod toward the bathroom. “First aid kit’s in there.”
“Oh.” She glances down at her hands like she forgot about them. “Right. Yeah, okay.”
Milo catches my eye as she stands. His expression says he knows exactly what I’m doing—and approves. I ignore it.
I grab a candle from the mantle on my way past. Going to need the light.
The bathroom is small.Too small for two people, but she follows me in anyway, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close she is. I set the candle on the counter, and the flame throwsshadows across the walls, makes everything feel closer. Her scent fills the tiny space, wrapping around me like a physical thing, and I have to focus on the first aid kit to keep my breathing steady.
“Sit.” I gesture to the closed toilet lid.
She sits. Watches me with those dark eyes as I kneel in front of her and take her left hand in mine.
Her skin is soft. Warm. Her pulse flutters under my thumb as I start unwrapping the old gauze, and I try not to think about how delicate her wrist feels in my grip. How easy it would be to press my lips to the inside of her palm.
Focus.
The gauze comes away slowly, loop after loop, revealing the skin beneath. I’ve done this a hundred times on myself—cuts from chisels, splinters from rough-sawn lumber, the occasional burn from the wood stove in my workshop. But this is different. This is her.
The candlelight flickers, casting her face in gold and shadow. She’s watching my hands as I work, her breath shallow, and I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart is beating. If she knows what this is doing to me.
Hands tell a story. Mine are calloused, scarred, built for work. Hers are softer, but not weak—there’s strength in the way she holds herself, in the grip she had on Ben’s shirt when she let herself break down.
The scrapes underneath are healing well. Pink and tender but scabbing over, no sign of infection. I clean them carefully with antiseptic, and she hisses at the sting.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is quieter than before. Softer. “You’re good at this.”
“Had practice.” I reach for the fresh gauze. “Woodworking. You learn to patch yourself up.”
I start wrapping. Precise movements, not too tight, not too loose. The gauze winds around her palm, across the meat of her thumb, and I’m hyper-aware of every point where my fingers brush her skin. The small hitch in her breath. The way she leans almost imperceptibly closer.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
I nod without looking up. Safer that way.
“You’re always so quiet. At town events, at the fundraiser meetings. You barely say ten words.” She pauses. “But you’re always there. In the back. Watching.”
My hands still for a second.
“I notice things,” I say finally. “People talk too much. Miss what’s right in front of them.”
“And what do you notice?”
