I clean the cut with antiseptic.
He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t.
The cut is shallow but wicked—wire is cruel like that, a thin blade that looks harmless until it isn’t.
“Someone cut it again,” I say, more to keep my hands steady than to rehash what we already know.
“Yeah.”
“On the exact section we repaired.”
“Yeah.”
I glance up.
For a second he’s not joking or guarded. He’s all the way present, eyes dark and sharp. The scar at his cheek catches the light and makes him look carved out of trouble.
“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” I say quietly.
His mouth softens. “I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not comforting.”
A short breath of laughter leaves him, low and surprised. “It used to be.”
It used to be easier to laugh with him. It used to be easy to be anything with him.
I tape gauze carefully, my fingers brushing over the hard ridge of tendon in his forearm.
His wrist flexes under my touch. His gaze drops to my hands. Then back to my face.
The air thickens.
I hate that I notice. I hate that my body notices faster than my brain can build a fence around the reaction.
“This whole thing is supposed to be pretend,” I say.
“I know.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m sitting here bleeding politely while you boss me around in a bathroom.”
I press a final strip of tape down harder than necessary.
He exhales like I hit a sensitive spot. The sound is quiet. The look he gives me is not. He shifts slightly, and his knee brushes mine. A tiny contact.
My breath stutters like the traitor it is. I step back to give myself space. The sink is behind me. The counter bites into my hips.
Nash stands. Slowly. Like he’s not sure if the movement is allowed. Like he’s not sure ifI’mallowed. “Laney,” he says, softer than the night outside.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to?—”
“Not this.” I lift my hands, palm out. “Not yet.”
His brow furrows. “Yet?”
