Emmy stopped rubbing. The adrenaline crash was settling into something specific—a heaviness behind her ribs, a prickling awareness of exactly how close his face was to hers. She looked from the dress to his hand.
"Okay. You're rich. We get it," she said softly. "But you're still bleeding."
"It's nothing." He didn't break eye contact. Reached for his bag, ignoring the injury completely. "I'll clean it up when I get home."
"Grant."
Emmy stood up. Her legs were still a little shaky, but her voice was steady. She placed her hand on his forearm to stop him.
"Please." She looked up at him. "Let me."
Grant froze. Looked down at her hand on his arm, then up at her face. Held her gaze for a long moment, the refusal dying in his throat.
Finally, he let out a short exhale. A sound of surrender.
He sat down on the bench, elbows on his knees, and extended his left arm.
"Okay," he said quietly. "All yours, Doc."
Emmy sat next to him. She unzipped the kit and took his hand in hers. Massive. Heavy. Calloused. And now that she was steady, the sight of the scrape just made her want to fix it.
"This is going to sting," she warned, peeling open a wipe.
"I've had worse." He didn't look at his hand. He was watching her face.
Emmy dabbed the wipe against the raw skin. Grant didn't flinch. But she felt his fingers curl, the tension traveling up his forearm.
"Em."
His right hand was under her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed her jaw.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "I promise."
His hand was warm. His eyes were steady, the amusement gone. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way the green darkened near the pupil.
Emmy forgot about the blood. She forgot about the Gatorade.
She was extremely aware of three things: One—she was still holding his left hand in both of hers. Two—his right hand was cradling her face like she was something fragile. Three—if she leaned forward six inches, she could kiss him.
The thought arrived fully formed. She could just lean in. Press her mouth to his. Taste the salt on his skin.
Grant's thumb moved. Just slightly. A tiny stroke along her jawline, so gentle it might have been accidental if every nerve ending in Emmy's body hadn't staged an immediate and comprehensive coup.
She stopped breathing.
For a moment—half a second, maybe less—his expression broke open. The press-conference composure dissolved andunderneath was something raw, something unguarded, pupils blown wide and his gaze dropping to her mouth and back up so fast she almost missed it.
Then he blinked. And it was gone.
The hand on her face dropped. The air where his palm had been went cold, and Emmy's skin registered the absence before her brain caught up—a specific, physical negative, like stepping out of sunlight.
"The bandaid." His voice came out rough, scraped raw. "You were fixing the bandaid."
"Right." Emmy's voice was approximately one octave too high. "Bandaid. Yes. Medical attention. That's what's happening here."
Neither of them moved.
Her hands were still trembling when she smoothed the adhesive over his knuckles.
