“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“It’s fine,” he replies, but his voice is rougher now, stripped of bravado and full of smoke damage, I’m sure of it.
I clean the cut carefully. Touching him feels right, even if the reason is wrong. His arm warm and solid under my grip. There’s a faint tremor in my hands that I can’t quite control.
I don’t look at his face at first. I focus on the task. Wipe the soot away. The tape, the bandage, the small, practical steps that keep me from thinking about how close he is. Anything but how I feel.
But it bubbles out anyway. “You scared me.”
He nods once. “I know.”
There’s no argument in it. No minimizing. Just acknowledgment. Like he’s been told this before.
“How many other women have you scared by staying out all night on a fire?” It’s an unfair question. I’m not even sure I want the answer. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“Fewer than you think.”
“A number.”
He half smiles. “One.”
My brow drops so hard that it hurts. “If you’re trying to say you’ve been with only one woman?—”
“It was Carlie.”
I stare at him for a confused moment. “Huh?”
Another heavy sigh, followed by a ragged cough. When I look worried at him, he shrugs it off. “The wind was crazy tonight, made the fire worse. I was caught downwind before I got my mask up. Inhaled more smoke than usual. I’ll be fine.”
“And how is Carlie the only woman who worries about you?”
His sheepish smile kills me. “Because I don’t let women stick around long enough to do things like worry about me.”
“You don’t date?”
“The ointment burns. When you spread it on the slice, I’ll probably make a face. Keep going. Deal?”
He’s not going to answer the dating question. Fine. I slather on the ointment, and he does indeed make a face. A lot of them. It’s a little satisfying since he made me worry about him. “Well, now you have two women who worry about you.”
He huffs a laugh. “No need. I’m gonna live forever.”
“Never say that. Not in front of me. It’s bad luck.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He does a half-assed salute with his good arm when he says it.
When I finish taping the gauze in place, I don’t move right away. The space between us feels charged, compressed, like the air itself has thickened. I glance up without meaning to and meet his eyes.
They’re dark blue and intent, fixed on me in a way that makes my breath hitch. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he catches himself. I feel it anyway, the pull of it, the memory of how easily we might close this distance.
I step back, creating space that feels both necessary and impossible. “You should rest. You look exhausted.”
He shifts slightly on the seat, knees brushing mine for the briefest moment before he stills. “So do you.”
I huff a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “I had the easier night.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
Silence settles again, heavier now, filled with things pressing at the edges of my thoughts. The words I want to say crowd close to my mouth, insistent and dangerous. I can feel them there, demanding to be let out, but I keep them contained.
