I sit very close to him. Very. Our legs touching. He doesn't move away. IIIIIGHHHH, he doesn't move away!
Chapter 13. Ethan
Friday, and I'm exactly three pages into my neuroanatomy reading when Marsal busts through the door, one hand pressed tight against the other, face in pain.
My stomach drops. Anyone else, I wouldn't care.
"What the fuck did you do now?" I hear how angry I sound. He's hurt, but I can’t help it. He makes me worried, even if I don’t want to. I need to ease up.
He tries to play it off. "Hey, Ethan," he says, voice a little higher than normal. "Don't freak out or anything, but I think I might have turned my hand into barbecue. They told me to go to the nurse's, but I came here instead."
He pulls his palm away from his sleeve, and even from across the room I see the angry red smear. Christ. The skin is starting to blister at the heel of his hand, right where the thumb meets the pad.
"What the hell did you do?" I run my hand over my face.
He shrugs, gives a half-smirk. "Lu told me to take the tray out, and I forgot it's basically a miniature sun. Didn't even scream. Promise."
"You're an idiot. Let me see."
He holds it out, not flinching, not looking at me. I take his wrist and angle the hand into the light. The burn isn't deep, but it's wide and fresh.
"Sit," I say, getting him to the edge of his bunk. I dig the first aid kit from the cubby under my bed. A privilege of being a leader. "We have to clean it. Why didn't you go to the nurse's room?"
"Not a fan of that part," he says, and I can tell it's true. He goes pale, then pink, then back to normal in about three seconds. "I thought you could help me better," he says. Quiet.
I don't say anything.
I pop the alcohol wipe. He pulls his hand away.
"We can skip the medieval torture part, right?"
"Nope," I say, and catch his hand again. This time, he lets me. I swab gently. He makes a show of wincing, but he doesn't let go.
"You should be more careful," I say, dabbing ointment over the red. "It pisses me off when you're hurt."
"I should be a lot of things," he says. "And you do really care about me, don't you?"
"You're my responsibility, idiot."
He's quiet. Those eyes still on me. He's almost pouting, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
I wrap the gauze slowly. He flexes his hand, and when he does, I have to adjust the wrap, my fingers brushing over his knuckles. His pulse is fast under the skin. I think he notices. Neither of us says anything.
"There," I say, letting go. "Don't touch anything with it for twenty-four hours."
He looks at the bandage, flexes his hand again. "Nice work, doc. You want me to start calling you Dr. Ethan?"
"Call me that, and I'll spank you."
He laughs. I bite back a smile.
"Dr. Ethan," he teases. I huff. I'd love to do more than spank him. I pack up the kit instead.
He leans back on the bed, hand propped up. "You know, I never had anyone take care of me before." The words slip out so quiet, I'm not sure he means to say them at all.
I nod. "Get used to it. If you keep making messes, I'm going to keep having to clean up after you."
I need to stop. But I don't.
