I tie off the gauze on her left hand. Smooth the edges down. Force myself to meet her eyes.
“You.”
The word hangs between us. Her lips part.
“You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met,” I continue, the words coming slow, dragged out of somewhere deep. “You show up early and stay late and make sure everyone else is taken care of. And nobody takes care of you.”
Her eyes go glassy. “Elijah...”
“I notice when you skip lunch because you’re too busy. When you rub your temples because you have a headache you won’t admit to. When you smile at everyone but it doesn’t reach your eyes.” I switch to her right hand, start unwrapping. “I notice.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The candle flickers. Somewhere in the cabin, Milo laughs at something Ben said, muffled through the walls.
“That’s...” She swallows. “No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.”
“Then they weren’t paying attention.”
I finish unwrapping her right hand. Clean the scrapes. Start the fresh gauze. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full. Heavy with things unsaid.
She shifts on the seat as I work, and her knee brushes mine. The contact sends heat shooting up my thigh, and I have to clench my jaw against the surge of want that follows. My cock throbs, half-hard again despite my best efforts.
This close, I can smell more than just her approaching heat. There’s fear underneath it. Uncertainty. She’s been holding herself together all day, acting like she’s fine, but she’s not fine. She’s terrified.
“Elijah.”
I look up. Her eyes are on mine, dark and searching.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers. “Let people take care of me. I keep waiting for one of you to get frustrated. To decide I’m too much trouble.”
I finish wrapping her hand. Don’t let go.
“You’re not trouble.” The words come out rough. “You’re not too much.”
Her breath catches.
I should let go of her hand. I should stand up and walk out and let Milo or Ben handle whatever comes next, because I’m not good at this. I don’t have the right words. I never have.
But she’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the world, and her hand is warm in mine, and her scent is everywhere—lavender and heat and something that’s justher—and I can’t think.
“I don’t have words like Milo,” I hear myself say. “I can’t make you laugh like Ben. But I can take care of things. Fix things. Build things.” My thumb traces a slow circle on the back of her hand. “Take care of you. If you’ll let me.”
She’s trembling. I can feel it through our joined hands—a fine vibration, like a plucked string.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to let people in.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Her eyes go glassy. And then she’s leaning forward, closing the distance between us, and her mouth is on mine.
The kiss is soft. Tentative. A question more than a statement.
My whole body goes rigid.
She starts to pull back—embarrassed, uncertain—and something in me snaps.
I cup the back of her head and pull her in.
The second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s deep and hungry and she tastes like want, like need, like everything I’ve been denying myself for months. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and a sound escapes her throat—a whimper, needy and raw—that goes straight to my cock.
