He didn't answer.
I turned back to his hand and started cleaning the wounds with antiseptic wipes from the kit. He flinched when the alcohol hit the open cuts, but he didn't pull away.
The garage was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the sound of our breathing. I worked carefully, methodically, cleaning each cut, pulling out the splinters with tweezers, applying ointment to the worst of the damage.
His other hand was just as bad.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels and looked at him. He was watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Why are you really doing this?" I asked.
He looked down at his hands—my hands still holding his—and shrugged.
"Couldn't let you carry it alone," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
But it landed differently than I expected.
I looked at his face in the dim light from the space heater. The exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes. The stubborn set of his jaw. The way he was sitting perfectly still, letting me hold his broken hands.
This wasn't about Ryan. Wasn't about guilt or obligation. This was something else entirely. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I wasn't ready to name.
"You don't have to do this," I said quietly.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was small and tired, but real.
"I'm your business partner now," he said. "Pretty sure I have to."
"You know what I mean."
"I do." The grin faded, but his eyes didn't leave mine. "But I wanted to."
Wind rattled the plastic sheeting somewhere outside. I was still holding his hands, his skin warming slowly under my palms. I should let go. I should stand up, pack my things, get in my car and drive home before this moment became something I couldn't take back.
But I didn't move.
Neither did he.
His eyes dropped to my left hand—still cradling his—and I saw the exact moment he registered it.
The wedding ring.
Gold, simple, engraved on the inside with a date that felt like it belonged to a different life. I'd forgotten I was wearing it. Ormaybe I'd just stopped noticing it, the way you stop noticing the hum of a refrigerator or the weight of a watch.
But he noticed.
His jaw tightened, and he pulled his hands back slowly, carefully, like he was removing them from a trap.
I let go.
"I should go," I said, standing up too quickly. My knees protested, stiff from kneeling on the cold concrete.
"Yeah." Ben stood too, slower, careful. "It's late."
I closed the first aid kit and shoved it back into the crate. My hands were shaking, but I kept them busy—folding the antiseptic wipes, capping the ointment, anything to avoid looking at him.
"Olivia."
I stopped.
