I drop my gaze to the floor and clamp my lips shut, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Of course, he doesn’t want my help. He’d probably welcome Amelia’s tender care and gentle hands. Or Rosa’s professional hands.
But not mine. Message received.
Julien soaks another cloth with alcohol and cleans the gash on my cheek before putting ointment on it. His fingers brush against my skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. I focus onthat sensation instead of the hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs.
“Here.” He holds out a white pill and bottle of water. “Take this.”
I nod, swallowing the pill before taking a sip of water.
“Almost done.” He leans close to examine the cut while I fidget with the bottle label. “Hmm. Butterfly bandages should be fine.”
He places the adhesive strips across the wound and cups my cheek, his thumb brushing gently over the bandage as if checking that it’s secure, while I wish it were for another whole reason.
The gesture feels too intimate, too caring, and my pulse quickens.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
I make the mistake of looking up, catching his eyes.
His pupils dilate, gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up. For a heartbeat, maybe two, neither of us moves, and a softness I thought was reserved for my sister spreads across his features.
“That should hold.” He stands abruptly, turning away. “You should check if there’s any food in the kitchen while I finish up in here.”
I nod, though he can’t see me, and rise from the bed, setting the bottle aside on the nightstand. My legs feel steadier now, and the room no longer swims quite as badly. I make it to the doorway before glancing back.
He’s moved before the dresser mirror, fumbling one-handed with a cloth while squinting in the mirror.
Stubborn asshole.
I march back into the room and snatch the disinfectant from his hand.
“What are you?—”
“Shut up.” I guide him down to sit on the edge of the bed, positioning myself between his knees.
His mouth opens, then closes, a surprised chuckle escaping. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hold still.” I tilt his head to better see the wound. Blood has matted his hair at the temple, and I gently clean it away, revealing a nasty gash.
He sits still as I dab antiseptic over the cut. “You have terrible bedside manner.”
“And you’re a terrible patient.” I continue working, my hands steadier than I expected. “If I’m not allowed to die, you’re not either. This doesn’t work only one way. We help each other.”
His eyes narrow. “So you did try to jump?”
“No!” I step back, horrified. “I did not. It was—” My shoulders sag under the weight of his suspicion. “It was… Well—Figure of speech. Like ‘break a leg’ or ‘I’m dying to try that cake’ or ‘knock ‘em dead.’”
Julien’s laugh starts as a surprised snort that grows warmer and deeper by the second. The sound is so unexpected, so genuine that I can’t help but join in, the tension between us dissolving into shared absurdity.
“You should do that more often,” he says.
I pause, hand hovering over his split lip with antibiotic ointment. Is he mocking me?
His eyes study mine. “It was meant as encouragement, not to shut you up.”
A small but real smile plays on my lips. “You too. You’re like a grumpy cat.”
“A cat?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
