She looked at me then, like she didn’t know if she believed me yet. Her eyes were red, lashes wet. She still gripped my shirt hard, and I carefully took her fingers and helped her unclench them, intertwining our fingers instead.
“Everyone sees me as this… grounded, put-together person,” she said, quieter again. “I can’t even remember the last time I cried in front of someone.”
“I’m notjustsomeone, Sloane, and we both know that.” I sighed, studying the bridge of her nose and the freckles there. The way her lashes fanned across her cheek and the way her lips were bowed and full, even when sad. “I’m not going to let you blame yourself or downplay how you feel right now.”
“God, who are you?” She huffed a laugh, her eyes shining as she stared up at me. “You’re twenty-six. You shouldn’t be here, being all wise and taking care of me.”
I bit back irritation. She was projecting her worries, trying to push me away. I knew that, and I refused to let her. “Why does my age matter?”
“You’re young, and most twenty-six-year-olds don’t have your maturity.” She stepped away from me, wincing as she touched the bandage on her head. “God, what am I doing? You’re a player, and I’m the?—”
“Sloane,” I said firmly. “None of that tonight.” I shook my head, my muscles tensing at the thought of her spiraling in that direction, where she listed all the reasons, she shouldn’t trust me or be here with me. I understood them, but I didn’t give a shit. “I’ve lived through shit that made me grow up fast. I’ve always been more mature than my age, and I have what one would say is an old soul. Yet friendship and caring about someone? Age doesn’t matter, I assure you.”
Her chin trembled. “But?—”
I placed my finger over her lips, silencing her. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going to shower or take a bath, whatever you want. Then, I’ll help put on your bandages, and we can watch the Cubs play the Giants. West Coast game.”
She nodded and disappeared into her room, the sound of the water turning on.
I sat on her couch, trying not to think about her in the shower.
But it was impossible not to. The sound of the water echoed faintly through the walls, and I kept hearing it in waves—fading, then returning. I stared blankly at my phone screen, thumb hovering but not moving. I wasn’t checking scores. I wasn’t texting anyone. I was sitting here, fighting the urge to picture her behind that door. Wet hair. Bare skin. Bandages she couldn’t reach. I told myself this wasn’t about that—but part of me was messed up over the idea of her hurting and me not doing anything about it.
She trusted me enough to come here into her space. To break down. To let me see the version of her no one at the facility would believe existed. I’d watched her take care of everyone else for weeks. Now I was here, in her apartment, feet planted on a rug she probably vacuumed twice a week, knowing I was the first person she’d let behind the damn curtain.
Being here didn’t feel casual.
The water shut off, and my chest got tighter. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I imagined her in there—unwrapping gauze, wincing as she scrubbed blood from her temple. Alone. Always alone. The thought made my stomach twist.
I wasn’t thinking about how beautiful she was. I knew that already. It was the way she held her pain so tightly. The way she let me see it anyway. The way she said my name when her voice cracked and she didn’t pretend like she had it all handled.
I’d never wanted to take care of someone this badly. I wanted her to need me, to rely on me, to let me be there for her, in whatever capacity.
So I sat still. On the couch she probably never let anyone sit on. In the quiet apartment that still smelled like lavender and cinnamon and shampoo from the bathroom. And I waited.
When the bathroom door creaked open, I jumped up.
She stepped into the hallway wearing soft black shorts and a white tank top that clung in places it had no business clinging. Her hair was wet, twisted into a loose knot that dripped slowly onto her collarbone. Her skin glowed, still pink from the heat of the shower, and my breath locked somewhere between my ribs.
The fabric was thin, almost too thin, and her pebbled nipples strained against it. God, her breasts were full, but I forced myself to focus on her face, not her body.
Her arms were wrapped around the med kit like it was armor, and she looked at me with hesitation I hadn’t seenbefore. Vulnerable. Bare in more ways than one. My mouth dried out.
“I, uh, tried to redo the bandage,” she said, her voice steady but lower. “The one under my arm. I can’t reach it right.”
I stood, trying not to let my gaze linger too long on the dip of her waist or the curve of her legs. “You want me to help?”
She hesitated for a second, then nodded.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone quiet, careful. “Couch okay?”
She crossed the room slowly, and I sat back down as she lowered herself beside me. Her thigh brushed mine when she angled her body, and I had to look away for a second to get my heart under control. She handed me the kit and then lifted her arm for me. The shirt shifted up an inch, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.
“You sure you’re good with this?” I asked, my voice rough.
Her eyes met mine with a small smile. “You already saw me cry. I think this is fine.”
God, she had no idea. No idea what she was doing to me by sitting here, trusting me like this. I opened the kit with fingers steadier than I felt. I peeled back the tape gently, my knuckles brushing the soft side of her arm. Her breath hitched, and I paused.
