I froze.
He paused immediately. “You’ve got brush in your hair.”
“Oh.”
His fingers moved carefully, not touching my skin more than he had to, plucking tiny bits of mesquite and dry grass from the tangled mess spilling over his arm.
Then his thumb brushed near the corner of my mouth.
I hissed.
He stopped instantly.
“Split lip,” he said, voice rough. “Sorry.”
My heart beat too hard.
“You’re not eighteen yet,” he said.
The words came from nowhere and everywhere.
A line dragged into the dirt between us.
I blinked slowly. “I will be next week.”
His jaw tightened.
“Are you flirting with me while half drugged, swollen, and bruised?”
“Maybe.”
“Destiny.”
“I know you think I’m beautiful anyway.”
His eyes flashed.
I should have stopped.
I did not stop.
“Bloody and bruised and with cactus in my hair.”
He looked away toward the horizon.
For one second, I thought he would shut me down completely.
Then he exhaled through his nose, like honesty physically hurt.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Everything inside me went still.
He looked back down at me, and this time he did not let the words hide.
“Honestly? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
My breath caught.
