“Surgeon,” Corbyn confirmed. “Orthopedic. She had this particular formula made up by some herbalist colleague.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he continued, “She once threatened to sedate me if I didn’t follow post-surgical protocols.”
“Would she have done it?” Sadie inquired, glancing over at him with a smirk.
“Without hesitation,” he countered, returning her smirk with one of his own.
Sadie laughed, and she heard him huff a noise that might have been the start of a chuckle. There was a warmth that bloomed in her chest as she watched him relax for a moment. A fleeting thought drifted through her mind that she would like to bring out that smirk more often, and perhaps at some point even get him to laugh. She quickly pushed the thought aside, focusing back on the conversation.
“She sounds formidable.”
“It’s a Pearce family trait,” Corbyn admitted with an amused shake of his head. He attempted to unscrew the cap with one hand, and she noticed his jaw tightened in frustration when the tube slipped from his grip.
Sadie watched his struggle, weighing her options. Three weeks ago, she would have pretended not to notice, respecting the wallshe’d built around his limitations. But things between them had changed so drastically since those early days. Taking a breath, she decided to put that trust to the test, praying she wasn’t making the wrong choice.
“May I?” she asked simply, holding out her hand.
Corbyn stilled, his blue eyes lifting to meet hers. A complicated series of emotions crossed his face: pride, resistance, and then, surprisingly, acceptance.
“If you insist,” he said gruffly, sliding the tube across the desk.
Sadie uncapped it quickly, but instead of returning it, she hesitated, biting her lip as she worked up her nerve.
“It might be more effective if…” She paused, then gestured toward his hand. “I used to do this for my mom. If you’d rather not, that’s completely…”
“Alright.”
The single word hung in the air between them. Sadie glanced up, finding Corbyn watching her with an unreadable expression. All of his usual defenses were momentarily lowered, and she felt her stomach flutter as she realized he was allowing her to help.
She pulled her chair around to his side of the desk, the movement deliberate but unhurried. After she settled, she cautiously reached for his left hand, taking it gently in hers. The scarring was more extensive than Sadie had realized, angry red ridges extending across his fingers and palm, the skin pulled tight across knuckles that no longer bent with ease.
Sadie squeezed a small amount of the arnica cream onto her fingertips, its familiar herbal scent sharp, overwhelming the earthy aroma of paper that she was used to. She began working it into his palm with gentle pressure, carefully following the natural lines of his hand. When Corbyn stiffened slightly at her touch on a particular spot near the base of his thumb, she immediately lightened her pressure.
“Too much?” she asked softly.
“No,” Corbyn said, his voice unusually subdued. “Just… sensitive there.”
Sadie nodded, adjusting her technique. As she continued, she noticed the subtle shifts in his body language, allowing them to be her guide. In her peripheral vision, she saw his shoulders gradually relax when she found the correct pressure, and his breath eased when she worked through a particularly tight spot.
His hand was larger than she’d expected, the bones strong despite their limited mobility. She could feel the places where the skin had been grafted, the subtle differences in texture beneath her fingertips.
“You’re good at this,” Corbyn observed after a few minutes of silence.
“I had lots of practice,” Sadie replied, focusing on a tight spot near his thumb. “My mom injured her hand when I was thirteen, and my dad traveled constantly for his job, so I became the designated massage therapist.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a thirteen-year-old.”
Sadie shrugged slightly, her fingers still working over his hand. “It was what it was, but you adapt.”
Something in her tone must have resonated with him because Corbyn’s following words were softer than usual, and he murmured, “Yes, you do.”
A comfortable silence fell between them as Sadie continued her careful ministrations. Every time she was this close to him, she was hyper-aware of every detail: the heat from his body, the scent of his cologne with its hints of sandalwood, the way her warmth spread through her body at the nearness. It created a heady mixture she found herself getting lost in as her fingers continued to move against his skin.
“How did it happen?” Corbyn asked suddenly, his voice pulling her back to the present. She blinked up at him, and he added, “Your mother’s injury.”
“She was a teacher, and she was trying to rearrange her classroom on her own,” Sadie explained, looking back down at his hand. “She was so stubborn she refused to wait for the maintenance staff. A heavy bookshelf fell, and her hand got caught underneath. She went through multiple surgeries and years of physical therapy.”
“Did it help? The physical therapy?”
“A bit,” Sadie commented, her eyes still fixed on their hands. “She regained enough movement that she could manage basic daily activities. Typing was difficult, though, especially on days like today, and writing for longer stretches was impossible.” She glanced up briefly, his blue eyes watching her intently. “She taught literature, and books were her life. Having to adapt how she interacted with them was… challenging.”
