“You burned yourself,” he says calmly.
His voice rolls over me like warm honey over gravel.
His accent is faint but unmistakable, rolling low and smooth beneath the words. Eastern European. Russian, maybe?
Whatever it is, it sinks under my skin and settles somewhere… inconvenient.
His face is striking in a way that doesn’t ask permission.
Strong jaw. Straight nose.
High cheekbones that give him a severe, almost aristocratic edge.
Dark hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, threaded with silver at the temples like a warning he’s earned. My gaze drops before I can stop it.
Big calloused hands. Scarred knuckles. Clean nails. A watch at his wrist that looks expensive without being flashy.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t notice when people stare, probabaly because he’s used to it.
"I'm fine, really." Another lie.
He ignores me. He takes my wrist with steady hands, warm fingers bracing my palm, and presses the ice directly to the burn.
Wide palms. Long fingers. They swallow my wrist easily, and the size difference hits me like a second shock.
I’ve always been hyperaware of my body. Its softness. Its curves.
Right now, I feel small. Tiny infact.
My brain short-circuits next to him.
Heat coils low in my stomach, completely unrelated to the burn.
The cold from the ice is sharp, glorious relief crashing through me so suddenly my breath stutters.
"Breathe," he murmurs, low and grounding.
Not loud. Not rushed. Like he expects me to listen. "I've got you."
My pulse stumbles. His thumb presses just a fraction firmer, like he’s aware of exactly how much pressure I can take.
I inhale. Slowly.
He keeps the ice in place, firm but careful, his thumb anchoring my wrist just beneath the worst of the burn.
He doesn’t hover.
Doesn’t fuss.
He handles me like he expects me to respond, like control is a shared language between us and not something he needs to explain.
"I saw what happened," he says. "You took that better than most would."
“I didn’t want to make a scene,” I admit quietly, hyperaware that my skin feels too thin where he’s touching me.
My gaze lifts.
The color of his eyes hits me like a bull dozer. Storm-gray. Sharp. Unflinching. Framed by thick lashes that soften nothing. Silver threads through his dark hair, a quiet promise of experience earned, not given.
