“Sorry.” Both pupils are reactive, at least, which makes me feel marginally better about the no-hospital situation. Marginally. Like, one percent better.
His wrist is next. I take his hand in mine, and awareness prickles up my arm at the contact. His fingers are long. Calloused.Tattooed on the knuckles. I press gently along the bones and feel him tense when I hit the swollen part.
“Probably sprained,” I say, not looking at his face. “These cuts need cleaning too.”
I work through his injuries one by one. Disinfect. Bandage. Repeat. He watches me the whole time, and I’m way too aware of it. The weight of his attention. The way his dark eyes track my hands like he’s memorizing every movement.
He’s handsome. I noticed it on the beach, but it’s harder to ignore up close. Not pretty-boy handsome. Something rougher. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Cheekbones that catch the light. A mouth that looks like it smirks more than it smiles.
Stop cataloging his face, Natalia. Very unprofessional.
“So.” His voice is dry. “Am I gonna live?”
“Probably. You’ve got a concussion, you’re dehydrated, and you’ve been beaten to hell.” I sit back and survey my work. “But you’ll survive.”
“Beaten to hell.” That almost-smile again. “Feels about right.”
“Do you remember anything? Even pieces?”
He goes quiet. I watch him strain for it, reaching into the dark.
“Water,” he finally says. “I remember water. And... something loud. Then nothing.”
“There was a bad storm last night.” I glance toward the window, where the sky is still bruised and heavy. “You might’ve wrecked a boat in the storm.”
He frowns, like he’s trying to make the pieces fit. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He shakes his head, winces at the movement, and I can see the frustration boiling under his skin. He wants answers. So do I.
But I’m not going to get them right now, and neither is he.
“I have a spare room,” I say. “You need rest. Sleep if you can. I’ll check on you every few hours to make sure you’re okay.”
He studies me for a long moment. Like he’s trying to crack me open and see what’s inside.
“Why are you helping me?”
The question is simple. Stripped of the sarcasm, the defensive edge. Just pure confusion from a man who doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would bother.
I think about my father. About the cold, empty house I grew up in. About all the times I needed someone to give a damn and no one did.
“Because someone should,” I respond quietly. I shrug before he can read into it. “Don’t make it weird.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me with those dark eyes, and something shifts behind them—there and gone before I can name it.
“Okay.” He pushes himself up, swaying. “Lead the way.”
I hold up a hand. “You can’t sleep in wet clothes. You’ll make my guest bed smell like low tide.”
He looks down at himself like he forgot he’s still soaked through and crusted with sand.
“I have dry clothes you can change into.” I nod toward my room. “And there’s a shower if you want to wash the ocean off.”
“Shower later.” He shakes his head slowly, carefully. “Don’t think I can stand that long.”
Fair enough. I grab sweatpants and a t-shirt from my dresser. I like my loungewear big enough to drown in, so hopefully they’ll fit.
“Bathroom’s through there.” I hand him the clothes. “I’ll wait.”
He’s gone for a few minutes. When he comes back, “fit” is generous. The shirt stretches tight across his pecs and the sweats hit a good three inches above his ankles. He looks ridiculous. Also, somehow, unfairly attractive, but I’m going to aggressively ignore that part.
