He adjusts his hold, his palm cradling the back of my hand, warm and careful as if I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers brush mine, lightly steadying them, sending a pulse of warmth up my arm. The spark I thought I’d buried years ago flickers to life soft but unmistakable.
“We need to wash it,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”
He guides me to the sink, nudging the faucet on with his elbow while still holding my hand. Water rushes over the cut, and I hiss at the sting.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, closer now, breath brushing my temple. “Should’ve warned you.”
I swear to God my brain is short-circuiting.
Words?
What are those?
Never heard of them.
“It’s okay,” I whisper back.
He looks at me then—really looks—and something inside me tilts dangerously. His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and back again, and for one suspended heartbeat, nothing exists but this impossibly gentle contact and ten years of unresolved history humming beneath our skin.
His eyes hold mine, and I can’t read what’s behind them. I want to look away but…I can’t. I swallow, forcing my voice to be steady.
“I, um…God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this?—”
“It’s not a big deal,” he says quietly, still holding my hand like it’s something precious. “You’re hurt.”
I should pull away. Ineedto pull away. But his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and my pulse jumps traitorously. He grabs a clean towel, pressing it gently around my finger. The pain dulls under his touch, replaced by something worse. A longing that makes me want to both lean into him and shove him out the door. Every gentle press of his fingers feels like an accusation. Like forgiveness I haven’t earned.
“You don’t have to—” I start, but my voice catches.
“I know,” he says.
In the doorway, Connor peeks in. “Mom? Coach Harrison? Are you guys making out?”
My stomach drops through the floor. “Connor! No. Oh my God!”
Harrison chokes on a laugh, his forehead dropping for half a second toward our joined hands. “Buddy,” he calls back, voice a little strained, “we’re just taking care of a cut. Do you know where Mom keeps the first aid kit?”
Connor glances at me and I remind him, “There’s one in the cabinet underneath the sink.”
“I’ll get it,” Connor states like a man on a mission. “But also, I think the garlic bread is burning.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, shit!”
Harrison moves before I do, reaching around me, opening the oven, and grabbing a potholder like he’s lived here his whole life. The sudden closeness steals my breath again, his chest brushing my shoulder, his arm sweeping across my side.
It’s not deliberate.
It’s not intimate.
But it feels like both.
He sets the slightly-too-browned bread on the stove, then he turns to me again, holding onto my hand, gentler this time.
“Let me get you bandaged up and then I’ll finish dinner,” he says softly.
“Harrison, no?—”
He shakes his head. “Harper, you’re bleeding. You should sit. This is the least I can do. I’ve got this.”
