The abandoned bar was a grimy, decrepit place. The layers of dust caked on every surface made it clear it had been vacant for far too long. Certainly anything of use had been picked clean long ago, but that never stopped the courier from looking.
With a pistol in her hand and her backup close behind, she searched every inch of the decaying building. She’d hoped to find at least one bottle of alcohol left overlooked by scavengers, but that optimism was dying quickly. All she seemed to find was rotting wood and broken glass.
Her final hope was a thin, weathered door attached to the defiled kitchen. The door didn’t budge when she tried it, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. Pulling a bobby-pin and screwdriver from her back pocket, she got to work.
Quickly, she was reminded of why she always avoids lock picking. Pin after pin snapped in her grasp, a deep sigh leaving her lips as she fumbled for the next one. Any sane person would have cut their losses by the tenth pin, but desperation was one hell of a thing. And she knew there was something behind that door.
“You’re wasting pins,” Boone’s voice cut in from behind her. She let out a loud, frustrated groan, shooting to her feet.
“Thanks for the expert fucking opinion,” she bit back.
“Watch it.”
She huffed and turned to him with a scowl.
“You crack the fucking lock then, asshole.” She shoved the tools into his hand and brushed past him.
Crossing her arms tight across her chest, she watched as Boone turned the tools over in his hand. She was familiar with that look of consideration in his eyes, a question of if it was worth it to fight with her stubbornness. It usually wasn’t.
With a heavy sigh, he knelt in front of the door.
She watched him intently, her one good eye tracing the shape of his fingers around the pin. The tension slowly eased from her face as she watched him work. Seeing his hands work with such delicate precision had her transfixed for a moment, her mind wandering to the thought of what they’d feel like on her.
She snapped her gaze away before the thought took hold. Not that she typically cared to stare and envision. In fact, she quite enjoyed that grumble she got when he caught her. But for now, she could do without the distraction. She had all night to objectify her only friend.
The click of the lock drew her attention back. To her irritation, he unlocked it without wasting a single goddamn pin.
“Asshole,” she mumbled, approaching the door as he stood. All that escaped him was a deep exhale.
When that door finally opened, her jaw dropped. All the frustration from the seemingly fruitless endeavor she was on finally fell away. Before her were two tall shelves stocked full with bottles of dusty, yet untouched alcohol.
“Holy fucking shit,” she breathed, stepping in and pulling a bottle of clear alcohol off the shelf. The label told her it was vodka, 60 proof. Not that she really knew what that meant.
She tucked the bottle into her arm and pulled another bottle from the shelf, this one with an amber liquid. Whiskey.
With a sly smile spread across her face, she extended the bottle to Boone standing in the doorway. He barely glanced at it.
“I’m not carrying it,” he bit. Her eyebrows furrowed.
“Jesus, fuck, relax,” she returned. “It’s an offer. Maybe it’ll help with that stick up your ass.”
He huffed, a clear tell of his irritation that she was all too familiar with. But he still took the bottle, turning his back to her without a word.
They both returned to the bar floor, turning it into a quick camp for the night. The small fire she got going filled the space with a dim, warm light as the sun began to set. With their armor discarded, they settled with their backs against the rotting bar, enough space between them to not have to acknowledge the other.
She got into her bottle first, breaking the 200-year-old seal and letting the liquid burn a path down her throat. She absolutely savored it, pulling the bottle away with a deep, contented sigh.
“Fuck, that’s good,” she muttered, letting her head fall back against the bar. The sound of another broken seal pulled her attention to him. He followed her, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long swig. He barely even flinched at the sting of whiskey.
The night carried on like the rest, silence settling heavy between them. She’d grown to find comfort in their silences, with Boone being a man of few words. And when she stopped moving was when the day finally caught up to her, ending all conversations, discussions, and bickering.
But with half a bottle of vodka in her system, the usual crushing weight of her trauma that settled over her at night lifted. Finally she got what she wanted: one goddamn moment she wasn’t concerned with the woman who was shot dead in Goodsprings.
However, in the absence of her self-loathing, a new, restless energy began. Sitting on the floor in silence was no longer cutting it. The warmth that bubbled just beneath her skin needed an outlet. Which was a familiar itch she knew just how to scratch.
Without a thought, she turned to Boone, eying him like before. He had about half the bottle of whiskey down, but his knuckles were nearly white around the neck. He was always tense, but somehow the lines of his face seemed to cut even deeper.
“Jesus, how are you even more miserable drunk?” She blurted, shattering the silent comfort in the air. He barely glanced at her before turning away.
She didn’t think he was going to say anything. If he was going to engage with her, he would have told her to fuck off by now. Something felt off.
“Doesn’t change anything,” he answered finally, his voice low and somber. She felt the words pull at her chest, realizing the quiet admission in them. She thought the whiskey would help ease his mind as it did hers, but she’d just given him a catalyst for the hurt he carried deep within.
If she was capable of rationality, she would have left him be, let him sort his own shit out. But her drunken boredom had a completely irresponsible and stupid idea starting. She was going to help him. The only way she knew how.
Words would never work. If anything, talking would make it worse. He needed something physical, something real. He needed her.
After one last gulp of liquid courage, she set down the bottle. All the times she’d stared at him, indulging in her nasty, yet fleeting thoughts, finally manifested into action. She crawled towards him, her heart pounding with an exhilaration she’d only ever felt in a gunfight.
His body was rigid as stone as she straddled him. She settled her hands gently on his shoulders, the muscles reluctant to give under her palms. He didn’t even look at her, his gaze fixed to the peeling paint on the walls.
“What are you doing?” He asked, but without the bite she was expecting.
“Trying to ease some of that tension before you pull a fucking muscle,” she answered. He just sighed.
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
“Not that drunk.”
“Then catch up.” He looked at her then, his tired eyes finding hers. She saw a flicker of something in them she’d never seen before. Something that had her stomach turning with excitement.
Without another word, he lifted his bottle to his lips and let the whiskey pour in. He swallowed once, twice, then a third fucking time before pulling it away with a grunt.
Her eyes were wide with awe as his attention returned to her. That feeling in her stomach morphed into a warm, potent need. All she could think of in that moment was how that whiskey tasted on his lips.
Without another bit of hesitation, she acted on it, slamming her lips to his. But it was like kissing a brick fucking wall. His lips didn’t give, his muscles didn’t relax. It was clear to her instantly that she’d made a horrible mistake.
She pulled back quickly, as if he’d bitten her. But he didn’t look angry like she thought he should be. He didn’t even look upset. He just looked lost.
Her heart ached in her chest, a realization that she’d let her drunken impulses shatter the little bit of companionship she had. She should have known better than this. She should have known he didn’t want this kind of help.
With a shaky breath, she shifted her weight to get off of him, to give him back the space they crafted that she was stupid enough to cross.
But the weight of his hand on her waist stopped her.
She froze, breath halting in her throat. Her gaze returned to him, the intensity in his eyes making her heart jump. The corners of her mouth twitched, trying to conceal an excited grin.
His gaze was fixed on his grip on her, a heavy breath escaping his lips as he rubbed slow circles into her thin tank top with his thumb. Something was still holding him back even as he looked at her like she was dinner.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of shit you got going on in your head,” she started, “but I’m trying to help you get rid of it. Just for a little while at least.” His eyes flicked up to hers.
“That’s all it is?” He asked.
“Yes, Boone, we don’t have to like each other to fuck each other.” She could see the pieces clicking into place behind his eyes, feeling the way his fingers dug a little harder into her waist. But he still didn’t move beyond that, some unseen force keeping him from indulgence.
“The NCR really did a number on you, huh?” She started. “Can’t even get your dick wet without-”
She didn’t even get the whole insult out before he was on her, lips crashing to hers so suddenly it stole her breath. The hand that had been wrapped around the whiskey bottle slid up her neck and into her hair, holding her against him.
There it is.
Her breath left her in a shudder as she quickly responded. She pressed herself flush against his chest, her lips working in tandem with his and letting the taste of whiskey flood her tongue. Tasted even better than she imagined.
She already couldn’t get enough, couldn’t press herself against him hard enough for it to feel right. And from the way he gripped her like she was falling from his grasp, he couldn’t either. Alcohol was one hell of a thing, but it wasn’t entirely to blame.
He soon had her on the ground, his lips never leaving hers. Her bare skin met with the grimy floor, but all she could understand was the welcome weight of his body pinning her down.
He broke away from her, both of them gasping suddenly. He didn’t pull away, didn’t look at her, just let his heavy breath hit her lips. The frantic energy running through them paused for a moment as they caught their breath. But only for a moment.
A soft laugh escaped her lips, a sound of pure excitement and relief. She’d wanted him like this since they first started traveling, imagining what it’d feel like to have all his anger and frustration taken out on her. So finally being surrounded by him was a dream come fucking true.
Boone caught her laugh with another bruising kiss, so she wasted no time going for his belt. Her fingers worked the leather through the clasp with an expert precision. She’d undone many belts in her life, but somehow this one felt different, more significant.
But that didn’t even slow her down as she had him free in record time. His breath hitched hard as she wrapped her fingers around him. He was thick, heavy, enough for her to break away from his insistent kiss to look.
And she was greeted by the biggest dick she’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.
“Christ, have you been carrying this with you the entire time?” She blurted. His jaw set, a familiar tell of his agitation.
“Can you shut the hell up?” He grumbled. She gave his dick a good squeeze, earning a grunt that went to the growing heat between her legs.
“Mean words from someone with a hand around their cock.” His jaw locked again, this time with so much force she thought he might chip a tooth. He then suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked her hand away from his dick. For a brief moment, she thought she’d pushed the wrong button. But then he went for the clasp of her jeans.
They were quickly forgotten on the dirty ground, joining the bottles that had gotten them here. The agitated tension in his face remained as he leaned back over her, a guiding hand aligning himself with her entrance. A breathy chuckle escaped her lips in eager anticipation.
But she wasn’t quite prepared, gasping sharply at the feeling of him splitting her open. Her hands flew to his arms, nails biting into the tense muscle as he settled deep within her. The stretch was unlike any other, a sensation that bordered on pain.
It was heaven.
“Jesus, fuck,” she muttered, hooking a leg around his waist, a desperate plead for more. Which he obliged, wasting no time starting to move.
He was slow, deliberate, making her feel every inch as he slid in and out. Soft gasps escaped her lips, the sensation of him filling her a wonderful, satisfying thing.
For like a minute.
Once used to his size, the slow pace had her restlessness returning. While she still loved the feeling of him in and around her, that wasn’t what she needed. And judging by the way his muscles remained stiff and unyielding, it wasn’t for him either.
“You’re still thinking,” she muttered, voice slightly labored. His pace faltered.
“What?”
“Stop fucking thinking so much.”
“I’m trying to be careful,” he grumbled. She huffed.
“I’m not made of glass.” He stopped completely, propping himself up to look down at her. His eyebrows were knit together in an irritated confusion.
“That shit going on in your head,” she started. “Let me feel it.”
The tension in his brow eased just slightly, the realization of what she was asking clearly setting in. She felt his cock twitch subtly inside her as he let out a heavy, shaky breath.
“Tell me you can handle it,” he said. She couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I can fucking handle it.”
He didn’t move immediately like she thought he would. Slowly, his hands slid up under her back, pressing his chest flush to hers. He settled his head in the crook of her neck, his breath heavy against her skin. To her, it just felt like a hug.
Then he started fucking her again, the first thrust alone enough to knock the air from her lungs. A strangled noise left her lips as he drove into her again and again, hitting her cervix hard enough to make her see stars behind her eyelids. Her hands scrambled to grab hold of him, nails snagging on the fabric of his shirt over his back.
His breath hit her neck in hard, rapid pants. His grip on her only tightened. The overwhelming sensation of him had her mind finally running blank. Where there was usually relentless teasing and sarcasm were only desperate cries of absolute gratification.
It was all she really wanted, for him to lose himself in the feeling of her. She considered it an honor to be a vessel for his pain and suffering that needed an outlet. And there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he needed this as he fucked her in a way that no one else had, in a way she didn’t even know she craved.
She arched into him, eyelids fluttering and limbs wrapped around him in a silent plea not to fucking stop. She could feel her lower stomach coiling, her muscles tightening, an indication that her climax was approaching quickly. Too quickly.
It hit her like a punch, stealing her breath in a yelp as she shuddered in his grasp. A sound akin to a growl was his response, a sound she more felt than heard as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed into her. He kept fucking her in earnest, taking a tight hold of her hair, grasping the strands as if they were his lifeline.
She was an absolute, eye-rolling mess by the time he stalled within her. He let out a deep, low groan, a wonderful sound that resonated through her whole body. She was practically limp in his arms as she desperately caught her breath and regained the ability to think.
Never in her life had she been fucked that well. Never had anyone left her feeling so fulfilled.
Boone slowly released her, placing her back on the dirty ground and pulling away. He didn’t linger, tucking himself away and crossing the room before she could even consider what to say.
But she just laid there, her mind in a blissful haze. The tingle in her scalp, the wonderful ache between her legs; she absolutely relished it.
“That was a one-time thing,” Boone’s voice sounded from across the room, cutting through the fog in her mind. She couldn’t help but laugh.
She knew without a shred of doubt that they’d be doing this again. When the sun went down, and the noise of their lives became too loud, they’d find each other again. And again.
Points, my God what the hell is that?! A chapter of the 1996 collection called, "Chapter 7: Saiki grows wings that are a metaphor for the Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome he has because the needs of his body refuse to be ignored any longer - or something to that effect anyway"?!
I wrote this today. Hope it's quality. It's been half a year. Saiki's laying down some curses like the gods be damned eldritch entity he is. Hey. Hello. I hope you enjoy!
Kaidou's apartment - 1R + loft similar to this and/or this? He used to sleep in the loft but one time when he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night he clutzed out hard and since then has foregone it.
When he was a student, Kuboyasu lived in a 1R but now he can afford a 1DLK similar to this. He's very proud of it but his heart yearns for a bigger place and a family to put in it - including a dog.
Nendo and Sakura with their dual income are moving into a 2DLK in an older building similar to this. Nendo negotiated for a second bedroom in the hopes this will be their kid's room.
And Saiki is of course in his nice new build house in the mountains of Shizuoka. Open concept dining room/kitchen/living room area is similar to this image that I can't find a source for.
These proportions are probably all nonsense and not at all accurate but this has been my general??? idea???? ish????? for the layout of Saiki's house (pre-Kumi).
He's got a surprising amount of seating available for a hermit.
Waking slowly wasn’t a luxury Boone had anymore. But the safety and soft hum of the Lucky 38 was a lullaby that kept him at peace, his eyes still closed and his usual tense muscles relaxed with sleep.
As he came to, the first thing he noticed was warmth, a presence tucked into his left side. A weight across his chest and against his shoulder, soft skin pressed against his, long hair cascading down his arm. He quickly recognized this as the familiar presence of a woman clinging to him.
Carla.
His own hand, laying limp beside her, moved, smoothing over the skin of her waist and pulling her in tight against his body. A weak, involuntary smile graced his lips as he settled his cheek against her hair. His heart filled with warmth, a familiar, yet forgotten feeling that washed away the past year of grief and pain.
She stirred, head shifting against his shoulder. A little hum of wakefulness left her.
But it was wrong.
That wasn’t Carla.
His eyebrows furrowed, eyes fluttering open. Where he expected the sleek brown hair of his wife, he found the fiery red hair of the courier.
And everything shattered.
His smile fell, returning to his characteristic scowl. The pain he’d briefly forgotten crashed back into him, replacing the warmth in his heart back to a cold dread. He couldn’t breathe, the guilt tightening his throat and chest.
She’d felt his love in a way he’d forgotten how to express, in a way that only Carla had ever felt. A look of genuine joy and excitement graced her usually hardened features. He saw in her eyes how happy she was to have felt it.
And for a godforsaken moment, he wanted to accept it. He wanted so badly to hold her, to give her the love that she’d somehow unburied.
But he couldn’t. The panic was too much. Too loud.
“Get the fuck off me,” he bit, the words leaving his mouth before he could fully understand them. They wiped that soft look right off her face, features contouring into confusion and hurt. It only served to further tighten his chest.
But he didn’t have to see it for very long. She practically tore herself away, throwing the blankets off and standing in an instant. He let out a heavy, shaky breath watching the rigid set of her back as she dressed herself sharply.
He should apologize, explain that in his sleepy haze he’d mistaken her for the woman he missed more than anything. He should say something, anything to ease the crippling ache in his chest at seeing her so hurt.
But he wouldn’t, he never did. The right words never made it out of his head, drowned out by the constant noise of his fear.
And now, it told him this was for the best. The closer he lets her get, the more love he lets show, the more danger she’s in. And the more he has to lose.
So he said nothing, just ran a shaky hand over his face before getting up and dressing himself. She was out the door before his feet even hit the floor.
–
It was stupid. Despite the brief affection she’d woken to, despite the brief moment of safety and love that followed, she was stupid for believing it. The happy spark that lit in her chest from being in his arms, it was weakness, a childish impulse she so foolishly indulged in.
The anger had subsided a while ago, ten broken mugs, an overturned table and a mangled chair later. All that remained was that empty, aching hole in her chest where her fervor once was. She couldn’t bring herself to feel it again. Not now.
She wanted to be upset with him, to write him off as just another asshole trying to hurt her, but she couldn’t. His bite wasn’t born from malintent, but a love so profound that it scared him. She hated the way she saw his pain bleed into everything he did. It would be so much easier if she couldn’t.
As stupid as she felt, she still knew what happened. She’d seen it in his eyes before, felt it every now and then when he was inside her. Moments where he didn’t see her, but saw a ghost.
She should be used to it by now, his need to push her away, to keep her at arms length. But goddammit, it still hurt every time.
She wiped her eyes of the unwelcome wetness that ran down her cheeks. It had to have been hours she spent like this, knees pressed tightly against her chest, wallowing in self loathing. But it wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before.
And she knew for a fact that the sorrow she felt was shared across the hall. As long as she could withstand this hurt, he’d feel it too.
But that’s not what she wanted, not really. What she wanted more than anything was to be loved, and for some godforsaken reason, she wanted to be loved by him. She didn’t want him to hurt. In fact, she’d bear the weight of his pain just to see him smile at her again.
The thought contorted her chest, hitching her breath. She could stew in resentment all night waiting on an apology that’d never come, letting him feel the pain she felt. It would be so easy just to let him never apologize and for her to just leave.
But if she ever wanted to see that smile again, she’d have to talk to him.
Fucking shit.
She got up, her limbs groaning in protest after being curled against her body for the past few hours. She needed to clear her head, needed some fresh Mojave air in her lungs before she confronted him. So, with a stretch, she entered the hallway of the presidential suite.
“Well there she is!” The familiar robotic southern drawl sounded through the hallway, grating her ears and making her flinch. “You had me worried sick after you slammed that door.”
“I thought I told you to fuck off,” she responded. She’d meant it when she passed him earlier, but now, the words held only a fraction of their bite.
“Well, now, I may be made of steel and wires, but words still hurt, sweetheart,” he continued. She huffed.
“Yeah, well, join the fucking club.” She crossed her arms, eyes drifting to the door she left from this morning.
“Why don’t you tell ole Victor what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.” Her arms tightened across her chest.
“It’s nothing,” she blurted, crossing the distance to the elevator. “Take me to the casino floor,”
“No can do, sweetheart.” Her head snapped to him, jaw set. “Orders from the big man says you have to work it out with your friend there.”
“Are you fucking kidding me Victor?!” She growled, throwing her hands to her sides. “Take me to the casino floor now, I’m serious!”
“Sorry partner, what the big man says, goes,” he explained, his manufactured voice cheery as ever. “Says you’re not as productive without your right hand man.”
“Victor, I swear to god I’m going to kill you.” Her voice was low and dangerous, a sound that had made even legionaries fold. A robotic laugh escaped him.
“I’d sure like to see you try sweetheart.” A growl escaped her lips, hands balled so tightly into fists her nails bit into her palm. She really thought she was going to tear him apart.
“Whatever happened, I’m sure you can work it out,” he continued in her raging silence. “Heaven knows I’ve seen you recover from worse.”
“Maybe I don’t want to work it out,” she spat. “Maybe I just want to leave. Maybe I’m just done.”
“Well then I’m sure it means nothing to you that he punched a hole in the wall.” Her breath hitched, but she didn’t waver.
“He punches lots of things.”
“Sure does, including the bathroom mirror.” Her heart dropped. “Didn’t even bother to patch up the damage to his poor hand.”
“Fuck you, Victor,” she grumbled, turning to approach the door from this morning.
“Words, sweetheart.”
Her anger for Victor lingered as she hesitated in front of the door. The fact that he could just trap her at a moment's notice had her blood pumping with a rage that she was determined to take out not on Victor, but Robert House himself. No one could ever do that to her and see the light of day.
But she forced it aside, her brand new goal of completely dismantling House’s empire completely insignificant to her at this moment. If what Victor said was true, she couldn’t in her right mind let Boone continue his spiral of self destruction. She was the only one that could put a stop to it. Not that she really knew how.
Talking was the one thing she was good at, but that never got far with Boone. It was rare for her not to know the right words, but when it came to her own feelings, she came up short. She’d sooner die than explain how hurt she was.
So she entered the room without any idea of what to say.
She found him immediately, catching the way he flinched at the sound of the door. Though he didn’t look up from the rifle in his grasp. He was on an old couch in the corner of the room, a dim lamp doing little to illuminate the room.
He ran a dirty rag across the barrel of his gun, appearing to be cleaning it. But she knew better. His rifle was certainly sufficiently clean hours ago. He was busying his hands, forcing them to do something mundane yet familiar to keep them from doing harm.
But he was okay. At least physically.
She crossed the room slowly, cautiously. The rigid set of his jaw and the sharp angles of his tense muscles were testaments to the turmoil he tried desperately not to feel. But she didn’t see a coyote with its teeth bared, but rather one caught in a trap. One ready to gnaw off its own leg just to be free.
Slowly, she sank down onto the couch next to him. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge her presence, but she caught the way he tightened his grip on the old rag.
Her breath stopped, realizing the layer of red that clung to that hand. Deep cuts ran across his knuckles, wounds he, in fact, didn’t tend to. Thank god she listened to Victor.
She swallowed.
“It’s…okay,” she started, voice shaky and unsure. She was used to wielding words like weapons, to use them to soothe was something else entirely.
He didn’t react, didn’t even blink.
“Boone?” She tried. But still, nothing. She needed something more, something that would cut right through the noise of shame ringing in his mind.
“I forgive you.”
That got a reaction.
His hand suddenly stopped along his rifle, a brief moment of stillness before he started again, slower.
“Never said I was sorry,” he spoke, a last ditch effort to do anything but apologize, to let her know of the guilt that was very clearly eating him alive.
“Are you?” She asked. The question sounded simple, yet held so much weight it made him stop yet again.
With a sharp exhale, he discarded the rag, laying his rifle down across his lap. He finally looked at her, and his eyes sank her heart. They were tense, angry, but so full of pain it made her chest ache.
No, I’m not sorry. Now leave me the fuck alone.
She could practically hear the words before they left his lips. Words he didn’t want to say, but were so loud in his brain he felt he needed to. She braced for it.
But it never came.
His expression shifted, the tension in his brows easing ever so slightly, his lips no longer pressed into a thin line. He let out a long, shaky breath.
“Yeah,” he spoke, the single word breaking in his throat. “I am.”
The simple admission flooded her with so much relief that it staggered her. She knew it was no easy thing for him to do, to bare his soul in a way she’s never seen. The weight of his words, it was enough to make her want to cry.
But she didn’t. She knew how fragile this moment was, his psyche a minefield she needed to tread through carefully. She knew how easy it’d be for him to retreat from her once again.
Her eyes drifted back down to his mangled hand resting on his rifle, the smear of dried blood a reminder of what had gotten them here. Her heart broke.
Without a word, she stood. Boone remained still, his gaze a heavy thing against her back as she crossed the room. He didn’t ask where she was going nor did he ask her not to leave, he just watched.
She returned only a moment later, his eyes never leaving her as she set down a bottle of alcohol, a roll of bandages and the softest cloth in her pack onto the table.
His heavy gaze prickled against her skin as she soaked the cloth with the clear alcohol. The label had long since worn away, but judging by the path it burned down her throat, it’d do its job here too.
With the alcohol soaked cloth in her grasp, she met his eyes again, holding his intense, questioning gaze as she extended her free hand to him. There was a moment of nothing, Boone’s usual hesitance to do anything that requires an ounce of vulnerability.
But it only lasted a fraction of the time it usually does. Without even a sigh, he gently placed his injured hand into hers, a slight pained tremble to his fingers.
She swallowed the lump that developed in her throat at the sight, the blatant evidence of his pain now in her hand. But she got to work starting to wipe away the blood.
Slowly, the crimson that clung to his skin began to clear, seeping into the old cloth in a way she couldn’t hope to wash out. His breathing steadied as he watched her every move with rapt attention. She began to feel it again, the importance, safety and love that came from being the only thing that mattered to him.
But then she got to his knuckles, the thin skin split and bruised. He flinched. Hard.
She stopped, cloth hovering over a deep gash between his fingers. Her eyes flicked up to his, a silent apology. He nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. His approval.
She continued, her movements more gentle than she thought she was capable of. He still flinched, hitched his breath, a constant reminder of how much he hurt because of her. That warmth in her chest began to curdle, a realization that it was her at the center of his pain.
She finished off by carefully wrapping a bandage around his knuckles, but that heaviness for him lingered. Was she to blame for allowing him to love her? She couldn’t bring herself to look at him again as she considered the horrible answer to that question.
She began to pull her hand back from under his, ready to give him the space she thought he desired. But before she could, his hand tightened around hers, holding it in place against his palm.
Her breath stopped, her gaze finally lifting to his. He looked at her with such profound admiration that her heart dropped. A look that said far more than his mouth ever could.
Without a word, he lifted her hand to his face, placing it on his cheek. His eyes closed slowly, turning his head to press his lips to her palm.
