“I… I don’t know. I can try.”
He rises, and then his hands are on me again—one gripping mine, one arm banding around my waist, solid and sure and just a bit too tight. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.
When I put weight on my injured knee, the pain flares hot and brutally sharp. I can’t quite stop the small whimper that escapes.
Bastian’s entire body goes rigid. “Okay. Okay, no.”
I don’t even see him move. I’m just aware of a suddenwhoosh,the world does a quarter-turn, and then Bastian is cradling me to his chest, one arm under my knees, the other around my back.
“Wait— Bastian?—”
“No.” He turns and carries me to the car. “You’re not walking on that.”
“I’m fine?—”
“You’re not fine. You’rehurt.” His voice cracks on the last word, and when I look up, there’s something raw in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
Actual fear.
I’m suddenly fearful, too—but only on behalf of every sidewalk that’s ever wronged me. Bastian’s scowl makes it seem like he’s gonna come back here with a sledgehammer and beat that section of concrete to absolute dust for the unforgivable crime of skinning my knees.
“What if you hurt yourself, though?” I can’t help protesting.
“The only thing hurting me right now,” he snarls, “is seeingyouhurt.”
He reaches the car and somehow manages to open the passenger door without putting me down, then settles me into the seat with a gentleness that doesn’t match the tension vibrating through his entire body.
But even when I’m seated, his hands continue to linger—one on my shoulder, one hovering near my injured knee—like he’s not quite ready to let go.
“Stay,” he orders, which might be funny if he didn’t look so wrecked.
Where does he think I’m going to go? Better question: Where areweabout to go?
Because as he starts to drive, it doesn’t take long to see that he’s headed in the exact opposite direction of my house.
“Hey, uh, Bastian…” I swallow. “… Any clues on where we’re going?”
His jaw hasn’t unclenched since he lifted me into the car. I think it’ll take the jaws of life to get that thing open again. I want to crack a joke about his overprotective streak, but I’m a little short on comedic instincts at the moment. My knee really does hurt like hell.
“My house,” he says.
I blanche. “Oh, no. Oh, no, really, that’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Bastian, I just scraped my knee. I’m not dying.”
“You’re hurt, I have a first aid kit at my place, and it’s closer than yours. We’re going there.”
I’m not quite sure why I’m having this miniature internal freakout, but it is definitely well underway.
Bastian’shouse. His actual, real-life, personal living space. The place where he sleeps in those twelve-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets he loves so dearly. I’ll get to finally confirm my coffin suspicions. I’ll get to see if it’s gum or toothpaste that’s responsible for the wintergreen smell that haunts my dreams. Maybe I’ll even?—
Oh, God, I’m spiraling.
“I can just go home and slap a Band-Aid on it,” I try again. “Really, it’s fine.”
