“Then I’ll take a needle and thread and handle it.” I snickered, flexing my arm—and making the cut bleed a little more. She didn’t seem sickened, but instead… worried. More than the injury warranted.
“Kneel.”
I obeyed before I even thought about it.
She clicked her tongue like I’d done something wrong, grabbed the bottle of Old Spice shampoo, and poured it into my hair. I bit back a surprised sound as she started working it into my scalp. Her body was close—too close for me to think clearly—and I had to force my attention back to what she was doing.
She was right. It felt amazing.
I cut her off by wrapping my arms around her legs. My lips moved up her thigh as I peered up at her, her wide eyes and damp hands frozen mid-motion. “I’m fine.”
She rolled her eyes before giving my hair one last thorough rinse, smoothing it back under the water. The shower floor had gone faintly red, and she reached for a washcloth, soaking it with soap. “Stand.”
I stood immediately. She ran the cloth over my chest, then my arm, careful to avoid my shoulder.
“I can do it,” I said, a laugh slipping through.
She shot me a stubborn glare. “No. Rinse off so we can clean that cut.”
She continued, focused and precise, and if I hadn’t been worried about that tile, I would’ve pulled her against me right there.
“The water’s cleaning it,” I said lightly.
She didn’t find that funny.
When she finished, she reached for the knob, but I caught her wrist and pulled her back against me. “You’re forgetting something.”
Her breath hitched. She tilted her head back, holding up the washcloth like a shield. “I’m clean. You need rubbing alcohol. Who knows what’s growing behind those tiles?”
“Fine.” I let her go. She turned off the water, and the steam spilled out as she opened the door.
I followed a second later, catching the towel she tossed at me and drying off before wrapping it around my shoulders.
By the time I stepped out, she was already dressed in a ripped Stone Temple Pilots T-shirt and baggy gray sweats, her damp hair darkening the fabric. She stood on her toes in the kitchen, digging through the cabinets for a first aid kit.
For a second, I considered staying naked—but if she was about to play doctor, I figured I should at least put something on. I grabbed my sweats from the bedroom floor, pulled them on, and went back to the kitchen.
“Sit.” She pointed at a chair, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in her hand, the first aid kit spread across the counter.
I sat, giving her a sideways glance. “Am I going to lose my arm, doc?”
“You’re still bleeding,” she said, unimpressed. “And it looks deep.”
I twisted to check it. She wasn’t wrong. It had slowed, but blood still trailed down my arm. I’d probably be stitching it myself later.
Her fingers touched my shoulder, and I held my breath—then she poured the alcohol straight over it.
“Fu—” I hissed, bending forward. “Thanks for the warning.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, examining the wound. “I’m so sorry.”
I laughed through the sting. It helped, a little. I looked at her hands on me—and hated how my body reacted, anyway.
There was every possibility she had my brain wired to connect wooden chairs with her teeth on my neck.
“How deep is it?” I asked, needing the distraction.
“There’s one part that’s pretty deep. The rest is shallow,” she said, tracing the edges. “If we keep it clean and covered, you might not need stitches.”
