“Jesus,” I mutter when I see him. “JT—”
“I’m good,” he rasps, each word scraped out with pain. “Will patched me up.”
Will wipes a spot on his hand that’s crusted with blood. “Bleeding’s clotted…mostly. He needs rest.”
I can barely think. Rage is hot under my skin. I want to turn around, get back in my truck, find the bastards who did this, and tear through each fucking limb with a dull knife.
But Sable steps forward, calm and poised, a world away from the woman who came undone in my arms not even an hour ago. She lays a hand on Will’s arm.
“Mind if I take a look?” She asks softly.
Will glances at me, then back to her, something in his expression relaxing. He steps aside without a word. I’m in awe of her ease around my brothers.
Sable kneels in front of JT, focused like a switch flipped, and she’s pure instinct now. Pure care.
“I’ve got a ten-year-old,” she says, voice soothing without trying. “He doesn’t get stabbed in fights—thank God—but I’ve learned how to clean and bandage things right. Especially the ones that don’t get stitched but probably should.” She winks at JT. “Boys like to play rough.”
JT gives a weak huff of a laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
She lifts the towel with steady hands, as if the gore does not faze her. When she sees what’s underneath, there’s not a crease of fear to be seen. With narrowed eyes, she shifts into gear.
“You did good,” she tells Will, inspecting the wound. “Cleaned it, slowed the bleeding.”
Will blinks in surprise, rubs the back of his neck, and mumbles, “I just… disinfected what I could.”
“Well, you probably did better than most in this kind of situation,” she says without looking up.
She glances up, her eyes immediately locating the first aid kit as if she’s been here before. Reaching over to the filing cabinet, she grabs the opened kit, and starts working. Gloves snap into place as she pulls out antiseptic wipes and clean gauze. She cuts open a packet, speaking like she’s a nurse to a wounded soldier, “This’ll sting,” and gently wipes along the edge of one of the stab wounds.
JT hisses but doesn’t pull away. His fingers dig into the couch’s fabric.
Her instincts aren’t performative—they’re bone-deep. Pure maternal. The kind of care that comes from somewhere raw and embedded. The kind I didn’t know I was still starving for until I watched her kneel beside my brother, steady hands and steady voice, as if she were born for moments like this.
And I’ve never wanted someone more.
Sable takes her time. Every wound is cleaned twice. She pats each area dry with gauze and talks to him the whole time in a low, calm voice that reminds me of our mother.
“You’re lucky,” she says, finally looking him in the eye. “I think they’ll scar, but they look shallow. I’m no doctor, but I’d say the bruising is going to suck, but you’ll heal.”
She grabs fresh gauze, antibiotic ointment, and surgical tape, then begins wrapping his torso with smooth, practiced movements.
“Bash wanted to learn skateboarding when he was six. YouTube’s great for a crash course in quick repairs. Did you eat today?”
“Burger earlier,” he says, clearly trying not to wince as she tightens the bandage.
“Well, you’re getting broth and a damn hydration packet when we’re done. Sit tight.”
JT stares at her in awe like she just blew in on angel wings, with a first-aid badge and a promise to cure all his mommy issues. “You always like this?”
Sable doesn’t look up. “Only when my kid or the people I care about get hurt.” She glances toward me, then back at JT. “You’re officially in that group by proxy.”
JT leans his head back and grins through swollen lips. “If I were older, you could’ve been mine.”
Sable lets out a snort, grabs another piece of tape, and says, “Sweetheart, while you were still swimming in your daddy’snuts, I’d already been fantasizing about doing scandalous things with the original JT. Justin Timberlake.”
Will coughs to cover a laugh from the corner.
Sable stands and brushes off her hands. “So… that’s a no from me.”
