cw: meet-cute (sort of), minor injury, caretaking-ish, turner has mildly intrusive thoughts about blood and sabotaging a pretty girl's camp
a/n: untamed was a romp and i had to take this self-isolating and slightly off-putting man + put reader in a situation with him. based off this thought.
The screen door claps shut behind him, and Turner squints against the flood of daylight that bleeds over the front steps, washing the ranger station’s lot in white.
Heat rises in shimmering bands off hoods and asphalt, insects droning from somewhere high in the trees. The lot is full—campers and SUVs side by side, cooking in the heat like ribs in a smoker. Visitors mill about in clumps. Floppy hats, water bottles, cell phones held aloft for a sliver of a signal. Some clutch trail maps, squabbling over where to go, what to see. All of them have questions, and none of them ask him. Thank Christ for that.
He keeps his brow low under his dark shades, mouth drawn into a line as straight and tight as a stretched fence wire. The square set of his shoulders, the manila folders stacked in one broad hand, do enough to dissuade the curious. He’s halfway across the lot, skimming a page of Souter’s messy penmanship and muttering under his breath, when it happens.
When you happen.
You round the nose of a van in a hurry, and he doesn’t see you until it’s too late. Your shoulder clips his chest, and there’s no contest.
A startled gasp. A thump. A scatter of objects hitting dirt—pen, phone, sunglasses—and the scrape of skin against rock. You hit the ground hard, crumpling sideways like a dropped deer, legs askew.
Turner doesn’t move. Doesn’t stumble or rock. Just blinks, staring down at the body he’s laid out. You, in a heap at his feet.
“Jesus, Turner,” came Vasquez’s voice, dry and unimpressed from somewhere off to the left, already moving to crouch down beside you. “You hazing the new volunteers?”
Turner doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s dry as a desert.
You’re trying to sit up, laughing nervously as you brush grit from your palms. Your face tilts up at him, bathing it in sunlight. A crooked, embarrassed grin with dimples in both cheeks that make something ugly shift in his chest.
Pretty. Too pretty. And younger than you have any right to be, sitting there in the dust, blinking up at him like he hadn’t just knocked the wind from your lungs and dropped you flat on your ass. Your boots are new—stiff at the ankle, laces clean. Shirt barely wrinkled, with some cheerful emblem stitched over the pocket. Smelling like sunscreen and honeysuckle.
Like you’re a still from a brochure. Delicate enough to fold up, put in his pocket, and take home.
“I’m—” you start, breath caught, tongue darting out to wet your lip, and that movement alone is enough to short his thoughts. “I didn’t see—God, I wasn’t watching, I’m sorry—”
“You’re apologizing to him?” Vasquez snorts, offering you a hand. “He’s the one stomping around like a horse with blinders on.”
You let her pull you up, wobbly but game, brushing gravel off the backs of your thighs and shorts. Turner finally finds enough sense to clear his throat.
“She’s right,” he says, voice like tires on gravel. “Wasn’t paying attention.”
He is now.
You shift your weight, and a bright smear of blood blooms beneath your knee, a tiny crescent of torn skin already streaking down your shin. It cuts clean through the dust smudged across your leg. He clocks it immediately. Can’t not see it.
“You’re bleeding. Want a band aid?”
You look down, and make a face. “Oh. Gross. Uh, maybe?”
Vasquez gives him a look. “I’ll grab the kit,” she says, disappearing back into the station.
You stand there staring at the blood sliding toward your sock and reach down a second too late. You wince when it hits the cotton and it soaks in.
Turner watches you retract your hand and sigh. He thinks about wiping it away with his hand. Thinks, distantly, Bet I could suck it out to keep it from staining.
He speaks to break the thought before it can morph into something worse. “You one of Milch’s volunteers?”
Your head lifts again, surprised, like you didn’t expect him to keep talking to you.
“Yeah. I start today. I’m supposed to do campground maintenance and visitor check-ins and, like…learn birds?” You tack on a half-laugh, as if it needs explaining.
Learn birds, he thinks. Cute.
“You got a name?”
“Oh. Yeah—” you offer it with another awkward smile.
“Turner,” he returns simply. “You new to Yosemite?”
“I’m, uh, new to everything out here.” Your laugh is quiet, self-effacing. “Is it that obvious?”
It is. If the clean boots weren’t enough, the work gloves hanging off your belt with the local outfitter’s tag still on them are. You’re soft and sweet in a way that draws attention here. Fresh. And it’s a town full of hungry mouths. The old boys’ll be on you like flies if someone doesn’t wave them off. Pretty thing like this, a little nervous, a little eager—God help you.
“I would’ve remembered you.”
That catches you. He sees it land. Your throat bobs and one corner of your mouth tucks in like you’re trying not to smile and failing. He presses his thumb into the edge of one of the folders in his hand until it slices skin. Sharp little punishment. It stings. Good.
His eyes drift again, pulled to the cut on your knee. It’s delicate, a shallow wound already starting to crust. It doesn’t belong on you any more than you belong out here, but it tugs at him all the same.
He opens his mouth to ask if you’re alright, but Vasquez’s already back, holding out the first aid kit. She’s not subtle. One brow raised, like she’s watching something she’s seen before and knows the ending to. Fighting a smirk.
He takes what he needs from the kit without comment, kneels before you in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s not his first scraped knee.
You fidget, eyes darting down, hands unsure when Vasquez leaves again to return the kit. You mess with your sunglasses, twisting the arms open and shut to cope. You’ve got that look again—deer in headlights. Like no one’s done this for you before, or not like this.
“This’ll sting, kid,” he warns.
He takes your foot and sets it on his thigh, hand curving under your calf to steady you. The scrape on your knee’s barely more than a kiss from the asphalt, doesn’t warrant this kind of attention, but he’s thorough anyway. Gentle.
You stay frozen, lips parted like you might speak but don’t. Your calf twitches under his hand.
He finishes with the wipe, and smooths the band aid one side at a time. He thinks, for one stupid second, about kissing it. It’s a miracle he doesn’t.
The spell breaks with the sound of your name. Milch, from the doorway, clipboard in hand and already flanked by a half-dozen other volunteers.
You jump, flustered. “I better run,” you say quickly, tugging your foot back and already moving. You flash a half-smile over your shoulder as you walk backwards. “Thanks, Officer Vasquez. Turner.”
Turner stands, closing the kit and rising slow. He watches you hurry over to Milch, apologize, nod along with the rest of the group as you fall in line.
It takes effort to tear his eyes away.
Vasquez’s leaning on the front of his truck, eyebrows up and biting back a laugh.
“‘This’ll sting, kid,’ ” she mimics. “Jesus, Turner. You’re shameless.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You get to a certain age,” he says, hauling himself into the cab, “and everyone’s a kid.”
She snorts, pushing off the door and heading for her own car.
Across the lot, Milch corrals the group of volunteers toward the waiting park van like ducklings. You look more like overgrown campers than campground hosts.
You glance back once before you climb in, just a flick of your eyes over your shoulder and he tells himself you’re checking to see if he’s still watching.
The engine sputters to life and he shifts into reverse, but doesn’t move. Lets the truck idle, gaze pinned on the van in the rearview mirror. On the glimpse of your profile through the window.
Head turned toward the window, sun catching on the dimple of your cheek. You chatter with the other volunteers, head thrown back in a laugh.
He tells himself it’s nothing. That it’ll pass.
Still. Won’t be hard to figure out where they’ve put you—what campground, what shift, when you’re most likely to be alone. It’s all logged. Easy enough to justify a drive-by. A quick look at your gear. A routine safety check. Nothing out of the ordinary.
If something’s wrong—If something goes wrong—
A missing rainfly. A broken zipper. A tear in the canvas that wasn’t there before.
He’ll show up the first night the weather turns and offer you shelter. Just until you can get back to town and can get squared away.
He watches the van pull out of the lot before finally following after Vasquez.
The truck growls low as it picks up speed. His mind’s already miles ahead.
