Chapter 21
Ashby
At lunch, I couldn’t stop thinking about ways to help her with the skin picking.
I knew she’d been doing it for as long as I could remember, but the older she got, the worse it seemed to become.
Sometimes it got so bad that she bled, which was why she so often had a bandage wrapped around her thumb.
She never talked about how much it bothered or hurt her, never made it a big deal, but I knew it did.
It had to. No one could keep tearing at their own skin, leaving it raw and irritated, without it affecting them.
I made a quiet mental note to look it up later, to see if there was anything that could actually help.
Maybe there were techniques she hadn’t tried yet.
Maybe a doctor could do something more than tell her to stop.
I was pulled out of my thoughts when Bennett said Milow’s name. I looked up just in time to see him slide a small container of strawberries across the table toward her. “You want one?” he asked casually, and I immediately frowned.
“She doesn’t like strawberries.”
Milow shifted in her chair and gave Bennett an apologetic smile.
“Who doesn’t like strawberries?” Bennett said with a laugh. “Come on, they’re probably the last ones you’ll eat this year.”
She shook her head, and I repeated myself, more firmly this time. “She doesn’t like them.”
Bennett’s brows pulled together as he looked at me, then back at Milow. “Shit, sorry.”
[It’s okay,] Milow signed, her smile tight. She didn’t want to make it awkward.
“She said it’s okay,” I translated.
Bennett nodded and smiled at her again. “What fruit do you like, then?”
I didn’t know why my mood had shifted so sharply, but I didn’t like this conversation. Even though Bennett was my friend, even though he’d always been nice to her, I didn’t want him getting closer to her. I didn’t want him learning her preferences or trying to make her laugh.
Milow studied him for a moment before signing, [I like blueberries and oranges.]
Bennett glanced at me, waiting. I sighed and translated. “Blueberries and oranges.”
He grinned. “So if I take you out for dinner, will you share a blueberry shake with me?”
Stan let out a low whistle from across the table. “Did you just openly ask out my girl?”
His girl? If anyone had a claim like that, it was me. He'd better stick to calling her Ace. And since when was Bennett interested in Milow like that? How did he imagine taking her out when he couldn’t even understand her without someone else speaking for her?
Milow’s cheeks flushed bright red, and the tight feeling in my chest only got worse. I’d never thought of myself as the jealous type, but whatever this was, it flipped something I didn’t know I had in me.
“I’m just messing with you,” Bennett said quickly, a smirk still tugging at his mouth, and when he noticed the way my expression hardened, he rushed to correct himself. “I mean, I’m not messing with you. I was trying to be funny. Not that I wouldn’t date you. You’re beautiful—”
“I think that’s enough,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended.
The table went quiet for a moment. Bennett blinked as he realized he’d pushed too far, and leaned back in his chair with his hands raised, backing off without wanting to make it worse. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry,” he muttered.
Milow kept her eyes on her lunch, with her shoulders hunched. I noticed the small movement of her hand in her lap. I dropped my gaze and watched as her fingers found her left thumb. She started picking at it without even realizing she was. Her focus drifted inward.
I tensed. Carefully, without drawing anyone’s attention, I slid my hand under the table and reached for hers. My fingers closed gently around her hand, stopping the motion before she could break the skin again. She startled, then relaxed when she realized what I was doing.
She looked up at me, her expression soft but embarrassed.
She hadn’t meant for anyone to notice, but I knew she hadn’t even noticed herself.
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze to remind her that she wasn’t alone and didn’t have to deal with it by herself.
She let her hand stay in mine, and after a moment, she took a slow breath before using her right hand to finish her lunch.
I needed to get my emotions under control.
Snapping at my friends wasn’t like me, and I didn’t want any of them to start thinking I was turning into someone unpleasant or unpredictable.
Even more than that, I didn’t want to risk pushing Milow in any way.
The last thing I ever wanted was to make her feel cornered, especially by me.
Right now, she seemed okay with my hand holding hers, and I stayed aware of that, ready to pull back the second she needed space.
What she didn’t know was that feeling her hand in mine helped me stay calm when everything inside me felt like a storm brewing.
That same night, I got out of bed and sneaked across the hall to Milow’s room. I couldn’t sleep, and I knew she’d still be awake, reading. I knocked and slowly opened the door just a crack to look inside. “Milow?”
She turned her head, sitting up in bed as she lowered the book to her lap.
Without needing to ask for permission, I stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind me before crossing the room.
Only her bedside lamp was on, but it was enough to light up her face.
She moved on the bed, making space for me like she always did.
I gladly accepted the invitation. I lay down next to her, careful not to crowd her, then turned onto my side so I could look at her.
She met my gaze and hesitated, but only for a moment.
Then she set the book on the nightstand and lay down, facing me.
I didn’t talk. There didn’t feel like a need to.
We just lay there under one blanket, and with our heads on the same pillow.
Her breathing was even, which automatically made me breathe slowly, too.
I watched her eyes soften, admiring the colors in them as I so often did.
And she watched me right back. I reached out, unable to fight the urge not to, and rested my hand on hers.
She didn’t pull back. Instead, her fingers slid into mine.
After a while, my eyes drifted to her hand.
Even in the low light, I could see the redness on her thumb.
Slowly, so I wouldn’t startle her, I brushed my thumb over hers carefully.
Her eyes dropped to our hands, then lifted back to my face.
I recognized the look immediately. She was about to apologize again, and that familiar flicker of embarrassment showed in her eyes.
I hated it. She felt guilty over something she had never had any control over.
It had to hurt her, and she looked so lost every time she tried and failed to stop picking at her skin.
She had done it for as long as I could remember.
Since we were kids. And it made me angry that no doctor had ever helped her or even taken it seriously enough to try.
I knew it had to be tied to her anxiety, but even then, I didn’t fully understand where it all started or what had caused it in the first place.
“You don’t even notice when you do it,” I said quietly. I wasn’t accusing her. “It happens when you’re anxious, right?”
She swallowed, her fingers twitching as she nodded.
I tightened my hold just a little, still moving my thumb over hers.
“If you ever feel like that again,” I said quietly, “I want you to hold my hand instead. You can squeeze it if you need to. As hard as you want.” I hesitated for half a second, then added to make it sound simpler, “Think of my hand as a fidget toy. Just something to keep your hands busy when your thoughts get too loud.”
Her eyes widened, surprised by my offer. I couldn’t be around her when we were in school, and my idea would be useless then, but whenever I was close to her, I wanted her to remember this.
She nodded, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Then her gaze dropped to our hands, and she tested my proposal, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
She looked pleased when she looked into my eyes again, and with a smile, I added, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I want to help however I can.”
She nodded slowly, then shifted closer to me, closing the gap between us.
Her eyes drifted shut, and I stayed still, watching her face soften again.
My gaze lingered on her lips longer than it should have, and I hated the strange feeling that followed.
We had been close for so long. We were never supposed to be more than friends, but I had never really called her my foster sister, either.
Not because I didn’t accept her as family, but because I had always known that we were meant to be something different.
Against everything my head was telling me not to do, I shifted onto my elbow, not letting go of her hand.
Her eyes flew open again, and I moved slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to.
But she didn’t. She lay on her back and looked straight at me.
Her lips were parted, and she just watched me, her attention fully on every single one of my moves.
I lifted our joined hands and placed them gently beside her head, getting us both into a more comfortable position.
Her eyes were wide, and she looked nervous, but she didn’t push me away.
Her fingers stayed intertwined with mine, and that alone made my head spin.
I leaned down slowly, giving her one last chance to stop me.
When she didn’t, I pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
It was brief and careful, and I didn’t linger longer than I should have.
My heart was racing so hard that I was sure she could hear it in the quiet.
I could’ve sworn I heard hers beating in her chest.