She fell maybe two feet, even though she could’ve fallen a few more.
I pull her back down to the basement and set her on the ground next to the stairs. “Are you hurt? Are you cut? Did you twist anything? Break any bones? Do you need a tetanus shot? Fuck.Fuck. Say something.”
She coughs again.
I grab the flashlight and inspect her legs.
Dust all over her jeans.
Her feet aren’t at awkward angles in her sneakers.
I tug up the bottom of her pants, looking at the skin on her legs.
No blood.
“What—ehlk—are you doing?” she rasps.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Fuck again.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug.
She’s safe.
She’s okay.
She barely fell.
“Water,” she says.
Shit.
Right.
I dig in my pocket for my phone and text Chuck.Need a water bottle. Dusty.
An answer comes immediately.Boy Scout failure. You’re covering my hazard pay if I die in there.
I stifle a growl of my own.
Sloane keeps coughing.
I keep holding her, knowing full well I need to let her go.
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep touching her, holding her, falling for her?—
I can’t.
“Look—under—stairs,” she says.
Under the stairs.
I haven’t looked under the stairs.
Why the fuck didn’t I look under the stairs?
