Chapter 13 Definitely Not Trying To Kiss Her
Elias
There’s no doubt in my mind that Raine could have handled the handsy jackass, but I’m glad she didn’t have to.
There’s a difference between being able to and having to.
In this case, I’d rather she didn’t have to fight. Let Theo and Jax take care of them. They’re more capable of doing so. Jax has been looking for an excuse to threaten people with that bat for a few months now. Now I get to look forward to hearing about it and how great it was to use Betty Bop.
All the same, though, I’m glad I‘m the one who gets to take her home. To see her place for the first time, alone. Not that I plan to take advantage of her.
It doesn’t take long to pull up to her place.
It’s not what I pictured, not an apartment complex, not some pristine little box with a gate code and matching balconies.
Just a narrow, one-story house with an attached garage and a driveway that’s seen better days.
The porch light flickers once, illuminating the front steps, which look solid enough to trust if you don’t stomp.
I get off the bike first, helping her down, even though she doesn’t need me to.
She leads the way to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open.
The first thing that hits me isn’t a clean laundry smell—something I was expecting for some odd reason.
There’s no air freshener, no wax melts or plugins.
It’s just her, oil and detergent clinging to the air from the garage, something faintly earthy underneath it, and a ghost of aftershave that doesn’t belong to her at all.
I don’t like that. Who’s been here?
When she shuts the door behind us, the house settles into itself with a soft creak.
My eyes move before I can stop them. Patched walls.
Half-done repairs that stopped midway and never started again.
A sagging couch that looks like it’s been slept on more than once.
A tire rim doing time as a coffee table base.
There’s a plant hanging near the window, drooping with stubborn survival.
It’s the only thing in here that looks like it expects to be cared for.
Raine leans back against the door for a second, like she’s bracing for something she won’t name, then pushes off and steps further in.
“Well,” she starts, voice pitched casually even while her shoulders stay tight. “Now you’ve seen the lair. You impressed?”
“Yeah,” I answer, keeping my tone light even as something in my chest tightens. “You’ve got a plant. That’s more effort than I expected.”
She squints at me, unimpressed. “It came with the place.”
I glance at the leaves, then back at her. “It’s still alive. That part’s you.”
Her mouth twitches, close to a smile, until she catches herself and tries to hide it behind her palm. The motion pulls my attention straight to her hand again. The bandana’s bleeding through in spots, darker now, and my body moves into EMT-mode before I can stop it.
“Table,” I tell her, nodding toward the kitchen. My voice stays even, but the edge of it isn’t negotiable. “Sit. I’m fixing that before it gets worse.”
Her brow lifts, skepticism baked in. “You really like telling people what to do, don’t you?”
“Only when they’re bleeding.” I meet her stare without blinking. “Only when they’re bad at taking care of themselves.”
That’s the condensed version. The real reason is messier.
There are some moments that wire themselves into you and never loosen.
I learned that young, too young. At ten years old, to be exact, when I had to yank a kid out of a hotel pool because nobody else was there.
Because I saw him first. Because I got to him first. I remember the weight of the water in his clothes, the way his skin looked wrong, the way my hands shook when I tried to give him CPR without knowing how.
Fifteen minutes is a lifetime when you’re waiting for someone, anyone, to come help.
When my parents finally showed up, they found me sitting there, blank-faced, staring out at the glass walls, that kid’s head in my lap.
After that, “leave it” stopped being an option in my head. “Someone else will handle it” never sounded real.
Raine watches me for another beat, then drops into one of the chairs. The defiance stays on her face, but her shoulders sag a fraction. She sets her wrapped hand on the table carefully, like she hates admitting it hurts.
“First aid kit?” I ask, already moving.
“Over the stove.” She gestures with her chin toward a blue box. “It’s a bit of a mess.”
I take two steps, then glance back at her. “So are you.”
She makes a face at that, but she doesn’t argue.
At the sink, I wash my hands, noticing the water runs warmer than it should, like the water heater’s been adjusted.
When I reach for the kit, I catch the texture of the cabinet edge under my fingers, smoothed in places from use, rough in others where work got abandoned.
A house that’s been maintained the way people with no backup maintain things: in bursts, in survival mode, when there’s time.
I bring the kit to the table, then pull my chair in beside her instead of across. Closer than necessary. Close enough that the heat from her thigh nudges at my awareness.
“Give me your hand.”
She hesitates, then flips it palm up, like she’s daring me to make a big deal out of it.
I untie the bandana slowly, peeling it back from her skin. Tiny pieces of glass catch the light under dried blood. Some cuts have clotted. Others still bleed in lazy, stubborn lines.
Her knuckles flex when the air hits, but she doesn’t make a sound.
“This is gonna sting,” I tell her, and my thumb settles at her wrist, steady at her pulse.
“Just rip the Band-Aid off, doc,” she mutters. “Literally.”
I dampen a cloth with warm water, then brace her wrist in my hand before I start clearing the dried blood away. The second I touch the worst part, she sucks in a breath, her fingers jerking.
“Breathe.” My grip stays steady on her. “Don’t lock up.
“You say that as if it’s optional,” she grits out, jaw tightening.
“It is.” I keep working, slow, controlled. “You just enjoy doing everything the hard way.”
A humorless huff leaves her. She tips her head back, eyes on the ceiling, and I can see the effort it takes for her to stay still. Her knee bounces once, twice, then she forces it down.
I work carefully, clearing enough that I can see what I’m doing. The cuts along her palm and the base of her fingers are shallow, messy. Too much glass. Too much risk for something that never should’ve happened.
My stomach knots, the old helplessness rising up with every glittering shard I pull free.
Not again.
Not on my watch.
Her jaw ticks before she breaks the small silence. “He hit Theo,” she murmurs again, almost eliciting a smile from me, since she’s repeated this sentence enough to let me know she cares. She cares a lot more than she wants to admit.
“I saw.”
“And you just”—she flings her free hand a little for emphasis and winces—"hauled me out.”
“You were bleeding,” I remind her, keeping my eyes focused on her hand. “You were about to make it worse. I picked priorities.”
She shifts, annoyance sharp in the way her body goes rigid first. “You put me over them?”
“I kept you from grinding glass further into your hand,” I correct, voice calm enough to be infuriating. “I left two very capable men with three idiots who didn’t know when to walk away.” I glance at her palm, then back to her face. “That’s not abandoning anyone.”
Her eyes drop from the ceiling to me, finally meeting my stare. The challenge is there, sure. The hurt is there too, tucked behind it where she thinks I won’t notice.
“You’re very confident in them,” she says, testing it.
“I am.”
“And in yourself.”
“Also true.” My mouth curves, just a little, even as I keep my grip steady. “Tilt your hand a little.”
She does it automatically, angling her palm so the light hits better. The second she realizes she obeyed without thinking, she makes a face.
“You really are bossy,” she mutters, trying to cover the fact that she listened.
“I told you that,” I remind her, matter-of-fact. “I’m not pretending otherwise.”
I pick up the tweezers, flick on my phone’s flashlight, and have her hold it with her good hand. The first shard I pull makes her flinch hard enough that her knee knocks into mine and the light shakes. I don’t let go. I don’t jerk. I just tighten my hold a fraction, keeping her hand stable.
“Count,” I tell her.
“What?”
“Pick a number. Count down.” I keep my eyes on the cut. “Gives your brain something else to do.”
“That’s stupid.”
“And yet,” I reply, sliding out another sliver, “your hand is shaking.”
She glances down, catches it, then curses under her breath like she’s mad at her own body.
“Fine,” she snaps. “Thirty.”
“Good.” I don’t look up. “Go.”
She rolls her eyes, but she starts anyway, voice tight through clenched teeth. “Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight, shit, twenty-seven…”
I work with her rhythm, timing the worst pulls between numbers, giving a second for the pain to crest and ease before going for the next one. By the time she hits ten, her shoulders are lower, breaths longer, jaw not quite as locked.
“See?” I lift my eyes when she hits zero, a quick check-in. “Not stupid.”
“Whatever.” The word lands with less bite than she wants it to.
I have her angle the light toward the last cluster, tweezers poised. “Look at me.”
“That sounds like a trap.”
“Raine.” My voice is softer, yet still immovable. “Eyes here.”
Her gaze comes up slow. When it locks onto mine, her shoulders drop a fraction. She’s still wound tight, still ready to launch herself back into a fight she can’t reach, but she isn’t alone in it now.
I ease the worst piece out. Her fingers clamp tight around the phone, tight enough to hear the plastic strain. She doesn’t look away.
“There.” I keep my voice low and steady. “The hard part’s over.”
“You said that before,” she reminds me, teeth clenched, grip still firm.
“I lied that time.”