His breathing is ragged. His shoulders are tight, every muscle in his body tense like he’s bracing for a hit instead of help.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I say lightly, reaching for his wrist.
He stops me before I can touch him, his hand snapping around mine with more strength than I expect from someone currently being taken out by a splinter.
“I said go away.”
“AndIsaid let me look.” I twist my wrist, not hard enough to hurt. Enough to remind him I’m not fragile. “You’re losing a fight with a tree right now, Carrson. I think we can set aside your pride for thirty seconds.”
I expect him to argue with me again. Then another wave of pain hits, and I see it in the way his shoulders jerk, the way his grip loosens slightly before squeezing again, trying to muscle through it, force it down, overcome something that isn’t cooperating.
I reach for him again. His body flinches away, as if the movement is automatic and he can’t stop it.
“Don’t,” he says, “Don’t touch me. I don’t like it.”
“Stop being such a baby,” I inch closer.
His head turns toward me at that, eyebrows knitting together. He wants to fire back at me, I can tell, but instead he presses his lips together and doesn’t argue.
I scoot in close enough that his knee touches mine, my face lifting to his until the warmth of his breath ghosts across my cheek. He goes completely still when I enter his space, like he’s unsure whether to shove me away and bolt.
“Come on,” I say, gentling my voice, even as my fingers reach for the hand he has clamped over his eye. “Let me see.”
“No,” he bites out, the word edged with panic more than anger. He grabs my wrist and holds.
“You’re okay,” I say quietly, not yanking my wrist free, easing the tension instead, showing him I’m not fighting. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, as if the pain in his eye has tangled with something else entirely.
“Fine,” he spits out.
“Move your hand,” I say, holding his gaze with his good eye.
He hesitates.
At first, it seems like he might refuse. That he’ll shove me away, get up, walk off, anything to put space between us. Instead, with visible effort, he drags his hand away, as if his own body is fighting him.
I inhale when I see how red his eye is. Already irritated and watering, lashes clumped together. He blinks once, hard, and immediately winces.
“Stop doing that,” I murmur, reaching up before he can block me again. This time when he grabs my wrist, it’s less forceful.
“Don’t—”
“You can either let me help you,” I say, my frustration rising, “or you can sit here and cry about it. Totally your call.”
“I’m not—” His voice cuts off as his eye waters again, proving my point.
“Mmm,” I hum. “Very convincing.”
Emotion flashes across his face, annoyance, pain, a stubborn need to be right, but then his grip loosens. He doesn’t let go. Not all the way, but he’s not trying to stop me anymore.
I take that as permission.
“Hold still,” I say again.
I lean in, one hand bracing lightly against his jaw to steady him. The minute I touch him, it hits me. A sudden, unexpected awareness of how close we are, of the rough edge of his stubble under my palm, his breath brushing against my skin.
For a brief second, it throws me. Then I push it aside. Up close, I spot it. A tiny splinter lodged under his lower lid.
