He removes his Stetson, setting it brim up and stabbing thick, calloused fingers through his ebony hair. Then, he rests both hands on the white-tile countertop.
I grimace, purple and red taunting. “Your knuckles.” My gaze fixes on bruised and swollen flesh.
“Fine.”
“No,” I counter, spine straightening beneath my creamy cashmere sweater. My fingers go to the dainty heart-shaped locket at my neck, playing nervously with the cold metal. A gift from Grandpa. “I’ll wash them.”
“No need.” His voice is flat as he pulls his hands back, grimacing despite himself when he shoves them into his jeans pockets.
My cheeks burn with anger and determination. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
Austin crosses his arms, face stubborn and hard.
I raise my chin defiantly.
Anything I owe him, I want resolved now.
Then, he shrugs, motioning me to follow him down the dark hallway into the bathroom.
He flips the light switch and searches for bandages, antibiotic ointment, and a brown bottle of peroxide.
The bathroom is too small. Or maybe he’s too big. Or maybe I’m just wound too tight for any enclosed space that isn’t my own.
“Sit,” I say, sharper than I mean to, grabbing the peroxide off the counter.
He hesitates. Of course he does. Like he’s deciding whether this is worth the trouble. Like he’s weighing me.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” My voice comes out clipped, defensive. “You’re bleeding.”
He finally lowers himself onto the edge of the tub, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. That’s already starting to piss me off. Trevor would be talking right now. Explaining. Apologizing. Accusing. Something.
Austin just holds out his hand.
I take it and immediately regret it.
His skin is warm. Solid. Calloused. There’s dried blood in the grooves of his knuckles, dark and rusty, and my stomach twists.
Trevor’s blood.
I pour the peroxide onto a cotton ball and scrub harder than necessary. He flinches.
Good.
“Ouch,” he mutters.
“You did this to yourself,” I snap, not looking at him. “By sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The words feel rehearsed, like something I’ve said before. Maybe not out loud—but in my head, a thousand times.
He doesn’t answer.
That makes it worse.
“I had it handled,” I go on, pressing the cotton deeper, scouring like I can erase the image of Trevor’s face when Austin hit him. Shocked. Furious. Bleeding. “I didn’t need your help.”
“Didn’t look like it.”
