Page 168 of Chasing Ruin
“I’m not a nurse.” I deadpan.
The next thing I know, I’m shivering under his touch as he glides his hands over to my waist. His touch is firm, but enticingly reverent.
My whole brain short-circuits. I can clearly see that he’s not even consciously aware of his softened actions. They come naturally to him.
I jump up and stand right between his legs—albeit carefully. Not wanting to accidentally hurt him again.
God.Why is he looking at me with such unsure eyes?
His whole face has dropped to a soft, questioning peep up at me—gaze filling with concern as his lips part at my abrupt move.
“Up,” I snap softly, my hand outstretched as though I can actually handle his massive weight.
The man entertains my gesture, clasping his hands on mine. I’m sure he’s not giving me even a fraction of his weight.
And then I catch it—his smile—as he stands up with effort.
There’s something dangerously soft about this ease, this almost-normal moment like the world outside hasn’t been burning for weeks.
Like we weren’t just there.
My chest tightens.
He must see it or feel it, because his hand comes up again, slower this time. More careful. His thumb brushes just under my eye, like he’s checking for cracks. “You’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.
“And you’re not thinking at all,” I retort, my voice cracking. “How are you… okay?”
His brows pull together, like he’s translating something unspoken. Then he leans his forehead against mine, voice softer—steadier. “I’m not. But right now, I’d like a break from what’s waiting outside these doors.”
My fingers curl into the hem of his cut, clutching it like an anchor.
“I feel it too, baby—I do,” he murmurs hoarsely. “But I’m selfish enough to admit you’re all I care about right now. Just you. You being here. Alive. Unharmed.” His thumb brushes the side of my neck, grounding, warm. “It helps. So I’m gonna focus on that, okay?”
I tremble under his touch. His fingers are too close to my throat.
For the first time, it’s not the lack of fear that shocks me. It’s the reluctant whisper of warmth.
“You and me,” he whispers, swallowing thickly. “No cells. No blood. No…” His jaw tightens, voice thinning. “…everything else.”
I nod, my chest tight with something fragile and unfamiliar.
We fought so hard to get here. To this quiet. And now that we have it, we don’t know how to move past the wreckage surrounding us.
We take the silence that follows as our due. A few deserved moments to help realize the weight of our present.
“Do you…” I clear my throat. “Do you have the kit? To change your dressing?”
He leans back slightly, one brow lifting. “You’d actually do that?”
“If you can do it yourself—”
He groans—loud, dramatic—slumping sideways into me. His hand flies to his abdomen.
“No, I need your help,” he breathes weakly, peeking at me through barely open eyes. “Please, baby. Would you?”
I stare at him. Flat. “You’re clutching the wrong side.”
He blinks, then slowly slides his hand to the other side with a pained hiss. “Damn, it hurts.”
