Her eyes flash as she looks up at me. "It's probably just twisted..."
"Don't," I cut in. The idea of her being injured hits a place I don't want to name. "You're not going to like this."
I lift her without waiting for her to protest. One arm underher knees, the other around her back. She gasps and grabs my neck, her face close to mine. Her body's warm against my chest. My heart kicks hard enough that she must feel it.
I haven't carried anyone like this in my entire life. The intimacy of it should make me want to put her down immediately. But instead, I'm cataloging every detail. The way she fits perfectly in my arms, how her breath hitches when I adjust my grip, the softness of her body pressed against mine. Her fingers curl into my shoulder. She’s trusting me completely with her weight. She smells like lavender and something uniquely her.
I want to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in until I'm drunk on it. If I could, I would carry her like this forever. I would feel her warmth seeping into me, filling all the cold empty spaces I've lived with for years. It's terrifying how right this feels.
"You don't have to carry me," she whispers, but her arms tighten.
"Yeah, I do. There's no way you're getting back to the room with that busted ankle."
Her lips twist. There's no room for argument, though. She knows I'm right.
"Okay." She sounds resigned.
The walk back feels longer than it should. Every shift of her weight, every breath against my neck, pushes my control a little thinner. When she shivers and moves closer for warmth, I almost lose my footing. By the time we reach the bed and breakfast, I'm wound so tight I can barely think.
I carry her into the room and lower her onto the bed with more care than I should. My hands stay on her waist, though I should let her go. Stepping back feels wrong.
"Stay there," I say, heading for the door.
"I'm not going anywhere."
I trudge down the stairs and talk to the innkeeper about some ice for Scout's ankle. She returns with a bag of frozen blueberries and a thin tea towel. After thanking her, I take the steps up two at a time. It's like I'm eager to get back to the same room where I felt trapped only an hour ago.
When I walk back in, Scout's exactly where I left her, watching me with those green eyes that see too much. I kneel beside the bed and lift her foot carefully, wrapping the ice pack around her ankle with the towel. She winces but doesn't pull away.
"How bad is it?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"It'll be fine. Just a twist." She's lying. The swelling's already starting, purple blooming across her skin.
"You need to rest it. Elevation, ice, compression."
"Yes, Dr. Huxley." Her teasing tone should lighten the mood, but it doesn't. Not when I'm this close, still able to feel the phantom press of her body against my chest.
I force myself to stand and put distance between us. "I'll see if they have anything for the pain."
"Silas." She catches my wrist. The contact sends electricity through me. "Thank you."
I swallow hard, nod once, and pull away before I do something stupid like lean down and kiss her.
The innkeeper provides ibuprofen and offers to bring lunch to our room. Hours blur together. Scout props herself on pillows, ankle elevated, while I pretend to read on my phone. The tension between us thickens with every passing minute. Every time she shifts, I look up. Every time our eyes meet, the air crackles.
"Want to watch something?" she asks finally, breaking the silence.
"Sure." Anything to stop sitting here drowning in want.
She finds a movie on her phone and props it on the nightstand. The only way to see properly means sitting on the bed beside her. Dangerous territory, but refusing would be obvious. I settle next to her, careful to keep distance, but it proves impossible. The bed's too small. Our shoulders touch. Her warmth spreads and seeps into me.
The movie plays, but I can't focus. All my awareness centers on the woman beside me. The way she absently plays with her hair. She makes these soft sounds of amusement as she watches the movie. After she flicks her long hair over her shoulders, my eyes keep finding the graceful curve of her neck. It would be so easy to turn my head and press my lips at the tender juncture where her neck meets her shoulder.
Fuck me. I'm painfully hard and grateful for the blanket. I try to think about anything except how easy it'd be to tilt her face up and kiss her. Her mouth's right there, pink and plump, her lips looking like they'd be warm and soft.
When the movie ends, she shifts and winces. I notice immediately and gesture to her.
"Your ankle's swelling more. Let me see."
