Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dan
Mel finishes the wrap by pulling the bandage snug around my forearm, her fingers firm and careful as she presses the last strip of tape into place.
The pressure settles in a heartbeat later, not sharp anymore but deep and insistent, a heavy pulse that spreads beneath the numbness and works its way up toward my shoulder.
I keep my arm still on the table even though every instinct tells me to shift it, to ease the weight of it, to do something. Moving would only make it worse, and I’m not giving either of them the satisfaction of seeing that.
Her thumb smooths along the edge of the tape, checking the seal before it can lift.
She goes over it once, then again, precise, exact, her focus fixed on the work.
I watch her hands instead of her face, waiting for the small pause that used to come after, the brush of her fingers that had nothing to do with bandages or tape.
She doesn’t pause.
Her hand lifts, already moving on, and the absence lands sharper than the pressure ever did. My chest tightens before I can stop it, my breath catching low as I keep my arm where she left it.
I draw in a slow breath through my nose and let it out just as carefully, forcing everything back into place.
She turns to the tray instead, reaching for a syringe. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
I don’t look at her. “Don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.” The soft click of glass carries as she fits the vial and draws the dose. “Sleeve up.”
I shift just enough to free my other arm, jaw tightening as I push the fabric higher. The table creaks under the movement.
Her fingers press briefly against my shoulder, cool where she swabs the skin. The smell of alcohol cuts through everything else for a second.
The needle slips in, quick and clean. A dull burn spreads as she pushes the plunger down.
She pulls the syringe free, drops it on the tray, and reaches for a folded sling. The fabric snaps open with a soft flick of her wrist. “Wear this,” she orders, already guiding my arm into place. “You keep using that arm, you’ll tear the stitches.”
I nod instead of answering. My voice would come out rougher than I want, and she’d hear it. She always does.
She steps back, and the space she leaves behind settles in around me. I keep my eyes on the table, on the edge of the tray, anywhere but her, and hold my arm exactly where she left it.
Tom’s hand stays on my shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed it while she worked. Now it’s the only thing I feel. The weight of it presses through my shirt, steady and unmoving, holding me in place without tightening. My muscles draw up under his palm before I can stop them. I go still.
His thumb shifts, dragging once along the line of my shoulder.
My breath catches.
Behind me, something slides softly across the counter. Paper. A drawer. The small, familiar sounds of Mel moving through the room. They land close, just at the edge of where he stands, threading into the space between us.
I swallow and fix my gaze on the wall across the room, holding it there, not moving, not turning.
His hand doesn’t lift.
The sounds at the counter don’t stop.
I sit between them, arm braced where she left it, Tom’s touch steady on my shoulder, and the space between us holds.
All of a sudden, my chest feels too tight, breath coming in slower, deeper, like I have to think about it to keep it steady. The ache in my arm pulses in the background, dull and constant, but it’s not what has my attention anymore.
I shift my weight a fraction, like I’m settling more comfortably on the table, testing whether he’ll move with it.
He does.
Tom’s hand stays where it landed on my shoulder, and the longer it rests there, the harder it is to ignore.
The heat of his palm seeps through my shirt, slow and steady, until it settles into my skin like it belongs there.
His fingers aren’t gripping, not even close, but they aren’t careless either.
They rest with intent, curved just enough that I can feel the shape of them, the quiet readiness in the way they could tighten if I gave him a reason.
My body registers that before my brain catches up.
Tom’s hand stays on my shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed it while she worked. Now it sits there with a weight that doesn’t shift, doesn’t ask, doesn’t give anything back. My muscles draw tight under it before I can stop them, the reaction running deeper than the pull in my arm.
I don’t move.
His thumb shifts, dragging once along the line of my shoulder.
My breath catches and stays there.
Behind me, something moves at the counter. Not the quick, clipped rhythm from before. Slower now. Metal touches the tray without the sharp edge it had earlier, set down instead of dropped. A drawer slides in, the last inch guided by hand.
I don’t turn.
But I hear it.
My chest tightens, breath coming in shallow before I force it deeper, steadying it against the weight of his hand. The ache in my arm pulses once, then fades again, pushed out by everything else pressing in.
I shift my weight a fraction.
He moves with me.
The contact holds, adjusting just enough to stay where it is, like it belongs there more than I do. My shoulders lock under it, the tension settling into muscle and bone before I can shake it loose.
Another sound behind me. Paper sliding. A pen set down. Not rushed. Not distracted. Each movement placed where it lands.
I sit there with my arm braced where she left it, his hand steady on my shoulder, and nothing in the room breaks the line between us. Not her movement. Not his touch. Not even my own instinct to step out of it.
My fingers curl once against my jeans, then flatten again.
Tom steps closer.
The space at my back disappears, the heat of him settling in without warning, and my body answers before I can decide what to do with it. My breath stutters, then evens out again, slower this time, like I have to control it or it’ll give something away.
“Up.”
I move.
No hesitation. My legs swing off the table, boots hitting the floor harder than necessary, and the motion pulls at my arm. The pressure under the stitches tightens, deep and uncomfortable, and I breathe through it, jaw set.
Mel is there before I finish settling, her hand hovering near my elbow, close enough to catch me. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
It comes out rough.
Her fingers brush the sleeve of my shirt as she pulls back, light and brief, but I feel it anyway. It lands against skin that’s already too aware and is gone before I can react to it.
Tom doesn’t step away.
He shifts in instead.
The heat of him settles at my back again, closer now, the space between us gone in a way that leaves nowhere else to put my attention. I feel the line of him without turning, without looking, my body already adjusting around it.
“Stay.”
My shoulders lock, breath catching again before I can push it down, and I hold where I am, caught between the pull to step away and the weight that keeps me there.
I glance at him. I hadn’t realized I was about to move.
He’s watching me.
Waiting.
There’s no challenge in it. No push, no force.
Just expectation, steady and unyielding.
Something tightens low in my stomach, sharp and unfamiliar.
I break eye contact first and drop into the chair beside the table, leaning back like it’s my decision, like I’m not reacting to him at all.
My arm settles awkwardly in the sling, the fabric pulling across my shoulder, restricting more than helping. The dull pressure under the stitches pulses once, then fades into something manageable.
“Happy?” I mutter.
Tom’s mouth shifts, not quite a smile but close enough to feel like one. “Getting there.”
Mel lets out a quiet breath that might be a huff, might be a laugh, and when I look at her, her gaze flicks between us before she turns away too quickly, like she caught something she doesn’t want to name yet.
She reaches for a file. “I still have paperwork. Half an hour.”
“I’ll take him home.”
Tom doesn’t ask.
I look at him again, irritation rising on instinct. I can drive. It’s one arm and just the left. I’m not—
“I can—”
“No.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step closer.
He doesn’t need to.
The word settles between us, calm and absolute, and my jaw tightens against it.
For a second, I consider pushing. Saying it again. Forcing the issue just to prove I can.
But Mel has gone still behind the counter. Listening.
And Tom doesn’t move. Doesn’t crowd me. Doesn’t press.
He just waits.
And under that steady, patient attention, something in me gives way in a place I don’t want to examine too closely.
The ache in my arm pulses again, deeper this time, and my fingers twitch against my jeans, restless.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Tom nods once, like that was always the outcome.
Of course it was.
Mel turns back toward us, file in hand, but her eyes land on me first, searching. “You’ll rest?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
Tom does.
That shouldn’t matter.
It does.
“Keys?” he asks.
I jerk my chin toward my pocket. “Right.”
He steps in close and reaches past my hip. His knuckles brush my thigh on the way, solid and warm, and my body locks for half a second before I can stop it.
He doesn’t react. Just takes the keys and steps back like it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing.