“Oh, it's, uh, it’s fine. I’m sure it’ll stop in a minute.”
I walk around the mahogany hunk of wood and pull open the top drawer. My voice is rough when I say, “It’s not fine. You’re bleeding when you shouldn’t be.” My eyes flick up to hers, gold on green, as my body thrums with the need to care for her, to protect her, even from herself. “There’s nothing okay about that.”
I disregard the reverent nod she gives me and sort through a few items until I land on a small collection of bandages freely floating around. I grab one, along with a random alcohol pad I find.
My legs take me straight to the couch where I settle in next to her, not giving a single damn if I’m sitting too close. A flash of blood on my own skin pops into my mind. It only adds to the restlessness that consumes me when I think about what came from that disastrous night. How I didn’t just lose an ungodly amount of blood, but also an organ—my kidney.
“I can do it myself,” she says, holding a hand out in hopes I’ll give her the supplies. Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m not going to sit here and watch her clean herself up.
I gently take her arm and angle it so I can see better but also so the blood doesn’t run and drip down her skin when she pulls the tissue away. I’m fully aware of how cool her skin feels against mine. How it chills me like stepping outside into a snowstorm but heats me like a million-degree furnace.
Nothing but the idea of stripping her down just to build her back up into the strongest version of herself formulates in my mind.
How fucking beautiful it’d be to witness that.
For her but also for me.
I hold her wrist with my right hand, my left trailing along the underside of her arm, my thumb softly skimming close to the wounded skin.
“Dr. Cole,” she exhales, trying to pull her arm away from me. “Please. I got it.”
I don’t let her retreat so easily. Why the hell would I?
My eyes lock on hers, my left hand still holding her arm. My tone is thick and unwavering. “I’m not someone who’s okay with seeing others struggle. I can help you, so let me.”
“I can put on the Band-Aid myself,” she argues, an argumentative hitch in her tone.
“You can but it’ll be a lot easier and quicker if I do it.”
Don’t make me sit here and watch you struggle.
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, her teeth cutting into the soft flesh. I damn near reach up and pull it free, part of me very tempted to imagine what it would be like to run my thumb over every inch of her delicate skin.
But then a voice inside my head reminds me that I’m her therapist. My job is to help her, not make things worse, so I roll that thumb over an imaginary lighter and set the thought on fire.
She’s quiet while I pull the tab of the bandage open and rest it on my leg. I don’t dare look at her face, knowing that my weak walls will crumble if I do. “Seems like it was your turn to be late this time. Is everything okay?”
I don’t know why her fiancé pops up in my head, but he does. He's nobody to me, just a name without a face. But he reaches into my goddamn mind and reminds me that Emory is his and nowhere close to being available.
“Everything’s fine.”
For a reason I can’t explain, I don’t believe her. I finally relent and glance at her face as I rip the alcohol pad open and smoothit over the edge of her scar. Blood smears into the wet cloth, and while I should care that some of it gets on my finger, I don’t.
She winces at the sting of the disinfectant, and I lean down to blow cool air on it, my lips inches from her skin.
“It’ll feel better in a minute,” I tell her as we wait for her skin to fully dry. “Is this supposed to happen?” I ask, referring to her laceration. Anyone would be able to tell the skin is still fresh from being stitched shut, but I don’t think any part of it should be opening up, especially with the sutures gone. At least, I never had that problem.
“I had an issue with one of the stitches. A little piece of it was stuck inside my skin. There was a bump there, and I could feel it. My doctor told me it was normal and that typically they’re pretty easy to press out.”
“So you started picking at it.”
“Only to see if I could get my skin to spit the stitch. I ended up irritating my skin more than anything, and a small scab formed. My bag strap must have caught on it when I rushed in…”
I press the sticky ends of the bandage to her skin. “You should keep it covered until it heals fully, so you don’t go bleeding all over everything.”
The small joke cracks a tiny grin from her, and I love every second it lasts. I ball up the trash in my hand and figure it’s time to get back to my side of the room. I drop the wrappers into the trash bin on the way and settle in my chair across from her, wanting to return to the previous topic while also wanting to still be next to her.
Like last time, she pulls one of the pillows onto her lap and rests her hands on top of it. I watch her for a moment as she fumbles with her fingers, quickly succumbing to picking at her cuticles.
