I close the door, eager to put a barrier between Zach and my roommates. As the latch snicks shut, I understand that I’ve closed myself in with a maniac. A maniacat best.
“Hey,” I say, the word barely audible.
He raises a finger to his forehead—a tiny salute—and my face twists. “Oh, your poor hand. Let me see.”
I cross over and grab his wrist before he can say a word of protest. The skin over the back of his hand is tight, so swollen it shines like it’s been laminated. There’s a deep cut in one knuckle, still oozing blood despite being crushed by the puffiness on either side. His ring finger is purple along one side.
“Ice,” I announce, then leave the room and burst into the kitchen, so intent on what I’m doing that I almost walk straight into my roommate Finley.
“Manners never hurt anybody,” she trills, but I assume it’s a joke. In the first three sentences she spoke to me, Finley crammed in every swear word I’d ever heard, along with a few new ones.
“Sorry. I’ll come back to refill these,” I say, tipping out the three ice trays from our tiny freezer. “Just need them.”
“Been looking at porn again. You know a cold shower’ll work just the same?”
I ignore her, running cold water over the cubes until they pop and rustle. From the hall cupboard, I also throw an old beige flannel into the bowl. By the time I finish, I guess it’ll need replacing.
“Put your hand in here,” I order Zach when I come back into my room, kicking the door shut behind me. “How long since you hurt it?”
He shrugs, still standing, and I guide him to my bed, sitting beside him to make sure he follows instructions. “A few hours, I guess.”
“This won’t help much with the swelling that’s already happened, but it should stop it from getting worse. Does it hurt?” I blush as he tosses me a grim stare. “Stupid question. Of course it does.”
When he still doesn’t move, just staring at me with a perplexed expression on his face, I take his hand and force it into the bowl.
“I didn’t know you were left-handed.”
“I’m not.” He shifts on the bedspread, twisting his mouth as the cold bites into the injury. I steal greedy glances at him from under lowered lashes. This morning, I was startled and the last time we met, I’d been swallowed up with other concerns.
Now, I treat myself to snapshots. His dark blue eyes, shot through with flecks of light grey. Blink. High cheekbones and a wide jaw. Blink. A light shadow of stubble that my fingertips desperately want to scratch against.
There’s something so divine about where the curve of his neck hits the muscles of his shoulder that my tongue pokes out to lick my bottom lip. His wide mouth twitches and my eyes go back to his hand.
With time to soak, the swelling recedes a little. I raise his index finger where the blood has diluted into the water. Zach tips his head forward to see better, and a large swathe of his dark hair falls over his eyes.
I swallow, my dry throat making a clicking sound. When I press the old flannel to the largest cut, he winces and tries to draw away, but I hold fast.
The touch of his skin sends tingles racing along my arms, standing the hairs upright in a shock of goosebumps.
“What happened?” I ask, not because I want to know what horrible thing Zach did to result in his hand looking like it’s been driven over by a car that reversed up to make doubly sure it wounded, but I need a distraction.
It’s unfair that someone so attractive can be so awful.
You’re awful, too.
A fair point, but one I don’t need clouding my head right now.
“Got into a fight.”
My eyes flicker up to find him staring straight back into them. A slow roll starts in my stomach, sending delicious shivers shooting across my skin. “You won?”
He smirks. “Goes without saying.”
It really does. And it appals me how glad I am that his face was spared any retaliation for the damage his hand inflicted. “D’you always fight with your left hand?”
“Yeah. Learnt to do it that way when I was a kid. Means my clever hand is still useful when the fight ends.”
The icy water is now pink. I wring out the flannel, then wet a corner again as I embark on another attempt to stem his bleeding. “Didn’t know rich kids like you got into fights.”
