Chapter 22
MYLES
Charlie’s just put his full weight on the third branch when it cracks and he slips.
My hands are on him in an instant, grabbing onto his waist for the second time in less than a minute.
He probably wouldn’t have fallen anyway, given the fact that his feet stay on the branch the whole time and he’s got a good grip on one that’s standing up vertically from the trunk.
Even if he had, it’s not far down to the ground.
Tell that to my jacked up, overly wound response to the idea of anything bad ever happening to him though.
Fuck, but my whole body’s tense with adrenaline and my heart’s going what feels like a million miles an hour.
The trouble is, I’m not sure exactly how much of that has to do with the way he just fell or…
“Fuck, Charlie, are you alright?”
“Fine.” The word sounds strained, like he’s forcing it out through his teeth, and instantly, I feel like an idiot. As quick as I can move, my hands are off his waist. He’s got himself balanced again just fine and I wasn’t doing anything besides just…holding him.
God, I really need to rein myself and my very inconvenient realizations in before I fuck up how well everything’s been going between us.
Between the crisis that’s crashing through my head and my overprotective freaking out, I’m setting the perfect course for blowing up our friendship all over again.
I don’t even remember making it up and over the tree trunk and pushing out back onto the trail through the branches on the other side, but I know we do it in silence. Charlie’s apparently even stopped worrying about bugs. There’s no brushing of his hair and shirt, at least.
Maybe because of that freaking awkward comment I made about checking him all over… Shit.
My panic turns outward, toward him and the fear that I’ve already fucked things up. “Charlie?”
I don’t exactly have anything to say, but he’s got his back turned to me, and I really want to get a look at his face to see if I can even make a guess what’s going on in his head right now.
Except, oh shit, now he is turning to look at me, and he looks all tense and—
“Hey, I really don’t want to go back, Myles—”
I’m still so caught up in my own head that my mind goes straight to selfish, thinking he knows and is going to start telling me off…
“But do you have a first aid kit or something? In your backpack?”
All the stupid, self-centered babble in my head shuts right off, and that adrenaline is back, blazing through me stronger than ever. This time at least, I know it’s nothing but worry for him.
“What happened?” I’ve already got my pack off and I’m ripping it open because, thank fucking god, I do have a first aid kit.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” He turns toward me, and there’s blood on the now torn front of his shirt. Blood. Definitely not a scary amount or even all that much really, but it’s still proof that he is hurt…
My hands are on his waist yet again, first aid kit tucked under my arm, and I’m steering him back, parking him on an old log alongside the trail before he can argue.
Damp from the wet ground seeps through my jeans as I kneel in front of him.
“Show me.”
“I can take care of—”
“Goddammit, Charlie. Show me.”
I only realize I’m still holding his waist when the material of his shirt tugs against my hands as he starts to lift it. Any normal person would pull them back, but apparently that’s not me, because instead, I help him, lifting the light green fabric higher.
Some disjointed part of my brain zeros in on what I’m doing, and, through the worry-fueled focus that’s making my thoughts fix with laser precision on finding out just how bad his cut is, I feel tight heat spike in my core, turning my blood hot and tingling as it pounds through me.
Like everything’s going in slow motion, my gaze tracks up the expanse of creamy skin stretched tight over toned muscle the two of us are exposing. Smooth. Hairless, like he waxes—
Oh fuck, does he do that everywhere?
He's got a freckle just below his bellybutton, a little off to the left.
For one long second, my eyes get stuck on that freckle.
My fingers that are still gripping his shirt flex with the urge to reach out and brush over it.
My lips fall open as I yet again imagine what it would feel like to run them over his body.
To kiss that spot and feel his skin quiver beneath them.
The heat and tightness flare hotter and tighter than ever, and my next breath comes out hard and shaky from between my parted lips.
Next second though, the heat’s gone as quick as it came, because time snaps back to normal speed the moment I rip my eyes away from that damn freckle and they land instead on the long, thick gash—okay, so it really is more of something between a shallow cut and a scratch—running from the base of his left ribs halfway up his pec.
Doesn’t matter that it’s obviously not serious. Seeing Charlie hurt is something I never want, no matter how insignificantly, and now there’s no room in my mind for anything but making sure he’s okay. That that cut’s taken care of properly.
“One of the broken branches got me when I slipped,” he huffs in irritation, reaching for the first aid kit that’s still trapped between my upper arm and my side.
Because, like a complete weirdo, I’m still holding tight to the bunched-up sides of his shirt, even though he’s got the middle of it tucked up under his chin now to hold it for himself.
My brain’s really not filtering apparently, because instead of letting him take the first aid kit and moving back to let him take care of himself, I finally let go of his shirt, just to bat his hand away. “Let me.”
Hoping like hell he doesn’t notice how my hands are shaking, I yank open the zipper on the canvas bag, rifling around until I spot a packet of disinfecting wipes. “It’s gonna sting, okay?”
“Okay.” He nods as I tuck the kit back under my arm again.
I can feel his eyes on me as I raise the packet to my mouth and use my teeth to rip it open.
It doesn’t matter that I know it’s illogical and nothing more than my own guilty imagination, but it feels like he’s got to be seeing straight through to the chaos and realization that’s swirling through my head.
Like it’s moving all on its own, my free hand settles on the warm smoothness of his back.
My mouth is dry as a fucking desert and every beat of my pulse tingles through my body like the static charge before a lightning strike.
When the wipe makes contact with the torn edges of Charlie’s cut, just to the side of his peachy-pink nipple that I’m trying with all my might not to notice the cold air has pebbled to a hard nub, he flinches, muscles rippling beneath twitching skin. Above me, I hear him suck in a sharp breath.
A blaze of heat creeps down my spine. Tension coils low in my middle.
“Does it hurt?” I have to force the question out, and no surprise, it’s low and gravelly and so not normal sounding, I want to shove it back inside the moment I hear myself ask.
“Not much.”
I risk a glance up at him, but he’s looking off over my head now, so I can’t catch much of his expression.
His chest is rising and falling fast and hard. Faster than normal. That cut’s gotta be hurting him more than he’s saying.
With a fuckton more effort than is remotely reasonable, I keep my touch to what it’s supposed to be, dabbing gently down over his ribs where the scrape turns into more of a cut before it ends just above his toned, flat stomach.
My eyes are glued to what my fingers are doing again, but now I can feel his on me as I work.
A different kind of heat burns under my skin alongside the other, itching and crawling with the irrational fear that he can feel what I’m only just holding back in my touch.
My mind is buzzing and my body’s a mess of mixed-up nerves and panic and barely contained arousal as I work, first finishing up with the wipe before moving on to Band-Aids.
The silence between Charlie and me is thick and heavy.
God, I hope it’s only me with my out-of-nowhere, freaking out realizations that feels it.
Silent until, “Ohmigod, Myles,” Charlie’s laughter sounds strained, but maybe that’s just me. Me, and my sexuality crisis that I’ve just realized apparently centers around the man who means the entire fucking world to me. The man whose friendship I refuse to lose ever again.
“Myles, stop. That’s enough.”
Long-fingered, slim hands tug a fistful of still-packaged Band-Aids out of my grip. The sides are crumpled from the way I’ve been clenching my fist around them.
There’s a pile of wrappers littering the ground at my side, and the cut running down Charlie’s chest is hidden under a solid plastering of so many Band-Aids, I can see now why he’s laughing.
“Sorry,” I mumble as embarrassed heat creeps up my neck, and shit, up through my cheeks as I drop my hands as he lets his shirt fall to cover himself once again.
“You’ll clean it up better once you’re home? I don’t want it to get infected or—”
“Myles—”
Before I can steel myself not to react, he’s planting his hands on either side of my face. Smushing my cheeks slightly. Tipping my head up so I don’t have a choice except to look him in the eye.
Shit, now there’s no hiding how I know my stupid face has got to be showing everything I want to hide—
For a beat too long, he studies me. His eyes are too intense, like he can read the chaos inside me like a damn book. His breathing is still weird, fast and heavy, but one corner of his lips tips up, and my heart skips because for just that one second I almost think—
The next second, he’s let go of my face. Pulled back and away from me.
“Me getting hurt wasn’t your fault, okay?
” He shakes his head with another kind of strained sounding laugh.
Gives my chest a light shove, like he’s telling me to get up already.
Like he doesn’t know how the world’s just crashed down around me, only to rebuild itself in this inside out, upside down version of what I thought I’d always known.
Mechanically, I nod, except I’m not really completely sure anymore what he’d said that I’m agreeing with.
“I’m fine, and it’s no biggie.” And if his voice sounds a little stiff, it’s got to just be because I’m still freaking the fuck out.
He doesn’t know. Doesn’t guess… “For a fussy city boy, I’m a lot tougher than you’d think, alright?
So stop beating yourself up already and take me on this hike you’ve promised. ”