Page 89 of This Beautiful Lie
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low and final. Not to me—to everyone else. And for the first time, I realized—he wasn’t just worried. He was scared.
“I’m fine,” I croaked, again, but then I tried to stand and staggered a little.
“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for argument.
Before I could protest, he slid his arms beneath me, lifting me off the ground. Everyone around us froze, watching, but said nothing.
“Go on without us,” he ordered, striding toward the cabins.
Dean didn’t set me down until we were inside. He shouldered the door open then shut it behind us, his arms beneath me the whole time as he carried me straight to the bathroom.
He set me gently on the counter, his hands steady at my waist before sliding away. For a moment, I just stared at him, breath caught, the quiet between us louder than my heart hammering in my chest.
His jaw flexed. “You didn’t know what you were doing. I should’ve never let that happen. You could’ve?—”
“Stop,” I whispered, lifting my hand to his face. “I’m fine. It’s just a scrape. Nothing happened.”
For a moment, he just looked at me—his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed, like he didn’t quite believe me. Then, without a word, he turned away, reaching into the cabinet for the first-aid kit.
The snap of the latch sounded too loud in the small space. He pulled out an antiseptic wipe, his movements steady but clipped, like he was holding himself together by a thread. The cool sting hit my skin a moment later, painful enough to make me hiss, and I pulled back instinctively.
“Easy,” he murmured, his hand firm on my ankle, grounding me in place. His gaze flicked to mine, softer now but no less intense. “Just let me take care of you.”
Something in the way he said the words made me unravel. The fight drained out of me, leaving only an ache in my chest. I swallowed hard, my voice almost breaking.
“I’m not sure I know how to do that.”
The truth of it hollowed out my chest, becausehow could I?I’d been taking care of myself my entire life—patching my own wounds, fixing my own messes, stitching myself back togetherin the dark where no one could see. Relying on someone else… letting someone else hold even a corner of the weight I carried…
I didn’t have a blueprint for that.
His eyes searched mine, and for a heartbeat, the air between us seemed to still—like the world outside had gone quiet just so I could hear the sound of my own pulse. His hand gentled against my shin, fingertips brushing feather-light as if he wanted me to believe him through touch alone.
“You don’t have to know,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Just… try.”
The air shifted, humming with something I couldn’t name. We weren’t just talking about my cut anymore, and we both knew it.
His fingers softened, and his touch became careful––like I was something he was afraid he could break. His brow furrowed in concentration, but beneath it, I caught something else—a flicker of vulnerability that made my chest ache.
Then he leaned closer, so close I could feel the warmth of him seeping into me. His breath brushed my skin an instant before he blew gently across the scrape—a quiet, instinctive kind of tenderness that sent shivers spiraling up my spine, scattering my thoughts into nothing.
I held my breath, torn between the sting in my knee and the ache spreading low in my belly. And for one suspended heartbeat, all I could do was feel.
“You’re awfully good at this,” I whispered, my voice unsteady—barely audible even to myself.
That crooked half-smile appeared on his lips, tugging softly at the corners. “I’ve had more injuries than I care to count,” he said, the warmth in his tone threading through me. “Rugby teaches you to patch yourself up quickly.”
But he didn’t move away after saying it. If anything, he shifted a little closer—his focus narrowing, his touch becomingslower, more careful, like he was tending to something far more breakable than a scrape on my leg.
Then his fingers drifted higher, knuckles grazing the inside of my knee.
The world tightened to a single point—the steady rhythm of his hands, the warmth of his breath, the impossible closeness—and everything else fell away.
When he pressed the bandage over my scrape, the thumb on his other hand swept over my thigh, lingering just long enough to make my pulse trip. Then his gaze lifted, locking on mine with a force that rooted me in place.
“You scared me out there,” he whispered, voice raw, like the words had torn their way out without his permission.
My throat closed. I grabbed his hand, pressing it flat to my chest where my heart hammered wildly. “You scare me in here,” I breathed, the truth rushing out before I could hold it back.
