Chapter 21
The smell of disinfectant filled the cramped living room. Rita tightened her grip on the tweezers, gaze fixed on Timothy’s bleeding arm.
The young man leaned back against the sofa, sweat–drenched white shirt clinging to his collarbones. Droplets trailed down his jawline, disappearing into his collar as his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
When the alcohol–soaked cotton swab touched his wound, he indeed muffled a groan, his warm breath brushing her wrist.
Rita pressed her lips together. “Every time you throw yourself in front of me like you’ve got a death wish, I thought pain didn’t faze you.”
“I’m not made of bronze,” he chuckled, eyes locked on hers. “Seeing you hurt bothers me more than my own injuries.”
“Then I realized,” he leaned closer, voice laced with half–feigned accusation, “you’re heartless.”
“Hold still.”
Her voice came out husky, deliberately avoiding his eyes.
Warm lamplight illuminated his face, revealing faint blue veins
beneath his skin.
As she bent forward, strands of her hair accidentally grazed his neck. His body tensed instantly, breath hitching.
“Hold still.”
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She repeated the warning, focusing on his bleeding brow
Timothy swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to her lips—a heated hook tearing at his composure.
“Rita,” he murmured, voice low as a sigh. “Are you… afraid of me?”
After applying the bandage, she jerked her hand back, spilling disinfectant onto Timothy’s shirt, staining it dark.
“Done.” She retreated half a step, turning to pack the medical kit. “Keep the wound dry these days.”
Fabric rustled behind her. Timothy had straightened up, his damp body nearly pressing against her back.
“Afraid of what?” His humid breath brushed her ear. “Afraid I’ll notice how you look at me isn’t how one looks at a younger brother?”
The medical kit lid clanged shut, her knuckles whitening around the handle.
Since meeting Timothy, she’d only known him as docile and considerate–all soft edges, no temper.
Yet now he advanced step by step, pausing just short of contact. “Rita, I won’t push you. But could you… not push me away either?”
Their overlapping reflections shimmered in the window. He dipped his head, nose inches from her hairline, the bandage on his brow blooming crimson like a vivid flower in snow.
“Timothy,” she finally turned, plunging into his fathomless gaze. “I’m four years older. Divorced. Miscarried a child. Likely can’t conceive again.”
He smiled, reaching to tuck stray hair behind her ear, fingertips
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Chapter 21
brushing her cool carlobe.
“So what?”
He hadn’t told her–he’d waited ten whole years for this.
