RiverStone
Tuesday, June 1
I forcemyself to step back, dropping my hand from Kiera’s wrist even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance between us instead.
Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated, and she’s looking at me like she’s caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay. I recognize that look now—it’s the same one she had on the staircase before my phone rang. The same mix of attraction and terror.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that if I kiss her right now—if I give in to what I’m feeling—I’ll scare her away for good.
She’s not ready. Maybe she never will be. But pushing her, taking advantage of a moment when she’s vulnerable and flustered, would be the worst thing I could do.
So I step back. Even though it feels like tearing myself away from gravity.
“I’ll get a bandage,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. I clear my throat. “First aid kit is in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I turn and walk down the hallway before I can change my mind, before I can do something stupid like pull her close and tell her that I’m falling for her and I don’t care how scared she is because I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.
The bathroom is quiet, a relief from the charged atmosphere of the kitchen. I open the cabinet under the sink and pull out the first aid kit, taking a moment to just breathe.
My hands are shaking slightly as I open the kit and find the box of bandages. This is ridiculous. I’m not some fifteen-year-old who’s never been attracted to someone before. But Kiera makes me feel like I’m experiencing everything for the first time—the way my heart races when she laughs, the way my skin tingles when we touch, the way I can’t stop thinking about her even when I’m supposed to be editing footage.
I grab the bandages and the small tube of antibiotic ointment and head back to the kitchen.
Kiera is standing exactly where I left her, staring at the cutting board like it holds the answers to every question she’s ever had. Her injured hand is cradled against her chest, and she looks dazed, almost lost.
“Hey.” I keep my voice gentle as I approach, holding up the supplies. “Let me see your finger.”
She extends her hand slowly, and I notice the blood has mostly stopped flowing. Good. The cut really isn’t that deep, but it needs to be cleaned and covered.
I unscrew the cap on the ointment and squeeze a small amount onto my finger. “This might sting a little.”
She nods but doesn’t speak. I take her hand again and dab the ointment on the cut. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine,” she whispers.
I unwrap a bandage and position it carefully over the cut, smoothing the adhesive edges down with gentle pressure. Her hand is small in mine, and I’m acutely aware of how delicate her fingers are.
“There.” I release her hand and step back again, putting distance between us. “Good as new.”
“Thank you.” She looks at the bandage, then at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that makes my chest ache. I want to ask her who hurt her, but I keep that question to myself. I know that wouldn’t be welcome.
“I’m usually more careful than that,” she says.
“You’ve had a long day. Moving, unpacking, cooking—it’s a lot.” I move to the cutting board and pick up the knife she dropped. “Why don’t I finish chopping these vegetables? You can focus on the grill.”
“River, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” I start slicing the carrots she’d been working on, keeping my cuts even and precise. “Besides, you’re the chef here. I’m just the assistant.”
She watches me for a moment, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it or if there’s some ulterior motive. Finally, she nods and heads out to the patio to check on the galbi.
I finish the carrots and move on to the cucumbers, slicing them thin. The rhythmic motion of chopping is soothing, meditative. It gives me something to focus on besides the way Kiera looked at me a few minutes ago.
Through the window, I can see her on the patio, turning the meat on the grill with careful precision. The evening light catches her pink-streaked hair, and she’s biting her bottom lip in concentration. She’s beautiful like this—focused, confident, in her element.
And completely off-limits.
