Chapter 14 Oliver #2
I sat on her couch, trying not to think about her in the shower.
But it was impossible not to. The sound of the water echoed faintly through the walls, and I kept hearing it in waves—fading, then returning.
I stared blankly at my phone screen, thumb hovering but not moving.
I wasn’t checking scores. I wasn’t texting anyone.
I was sitting here, fighting the urge to picture her behind that door.
Wet hair. Bare skin. Bandages she couldn’t reach.
I told myself this wasn’t about that—but part of me was messed up over the idea of her hurting and me not doing anything about it.
She trusted me enough to come here into her space.
To break down. To let me see the version of her no one at the facility would believe existed.
I’d watched her take care of everyone else for weeks.
Now I was here, in her apartment, feet planted on a rug she probably vacuumed twice a week, knowing I was the first person she’d let behind the damn curtain.
Being here didn’t feel casual.
The water shut off, and my chest got tighter. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I imagined her in there—unwrapping gauze, wincing as she scrubbed blood from her temple. Alone. Always alone. The thought made my stomach twist.
I wasn’t thinking about how beautiful she was. I knew that already. It was the way she held her pain so tightly. The way she let me see it anyway. The way she said my name when her voice cracked and she didn’t pretend like she had it all handled.
I’d never wanted to take care of someone this badly. I wanted her to need me, to rely on me, to let me be there for her, in whatever capacity.
So I sat still. On the couch she probably never let anyone sit on. In the quiet apartment that still smelled like lavender and cinnamon and shampoo from the bathroom. And I waited.
When the bathroom door creaked open, I jumped up.
She stepped into the hallway wearing soft black shorts and a white tank top that clung in places it had no business clinging.
Her hair was wet, twisted into a loose knot that dripped slowly onto her collarbone.
Her skin glowed, still pink from the heat of the shower, and my breath locked somewhere between my ribs.
The fabric was thin, almost too thin, and her pebbled nipples strained against it. God, her breasts were full, but I forced myself to focus on her face, not her body.
Her arms were wrapped around the med kit like it was armor, and she looked at me with hesitation I hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Bare in more ways than one. My mouth dried out.
“I, uh, tried to redo the bandage,” she said, her voice steady but lower. “The one under my arm. I can’t reach it right.”
I stood, trying not to let my gaze linger too long on the dip of her waist or the curve of her legs. “You want me to help?”
She hesitated for a second, then nodded.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone quiet, careful. “Couch okay?”
She crossed the room slowly, and I sat back down as she lowered herself beside me.
Her thigh brushed mine when she angled her body, and I had to look away for a second to get my heart under control.
She handed me the kit and then lifted her arm for me.
The shirt shifted up an inch, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.
“You sure you’re good with this?” I asked, my voice rough.
Her eyes met mine with a small smile. “You already saw me cry. I think this is fine.”
God, she had no idea. No idea what she was doing to me by sitting here, trusting me like this. I opened the kit with fingers steadier than I felt. I peeled back the tape gently, my knuckles brushing the soft side of her arm. Her breath hitched, and I paused.
“Sore?”
“A little,” she whispered.
I focused on the wound. I focused on the way her skin was warm under my touch. I focused on the fact that she didn’t move away. She was trusting me completely, and I would never take that for granted. This brave, intelligent, beautiful woman trusted me.
“Are you still okay?” I asked, quieter now, searching her face for any signs.
She nodded. Barely. Her gaze didn’t meet mine, and that almost made it worse.
I could see the pulse in her throat fluttering, the tight hold of her shoulders like she was trying not to feel how close I was.
I kept my hand steady as I cleaned the area gently, dabbing the antiseptic without rushing.
Her skin was flushed under my touch, a light blush spreading across her chest that had nothing to do with the shower.
“You’re doing good,” I said, needing her to hear something besides the silence crackling between us. “A little longer.”
She nodded again. I pressed a clean dressing against the gauze and taped it down carefully. My hand lingered for a beat too long, and when I looked up, her eyes were already on me.
“I, uh,” she said, voice catching. “There’s still the one on my forehead.”
“Right,” I breathed. “Let me see.”
She shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up slightly to face me.
I scooted closer, close enough that my knee bumped hers.
Close enough I could see the faint line of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She tilted her chin up slowly, and I raised one hand and pushed back a damp piece of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and my thumb brushed against her temple.
She exhaled, hard, and her chest heaved.
“This might sting,” I said, but she didn’t flinch. She sat there, letting me care for her.
Her breath hit my jaw when I leaned in. My chest grazed her knees.
I could see every detail of her face—how her lashes curled at the ends, how her lips parted slightly, how her cheeks turned pink when my hand settled lightly against her hairline.
I pressed the wipe gently to the cut, and her breath caught.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, and god—her voice, it was deeper, raspy now. A tone I hadn’t heard from her before.
I pulled back enough to look at her, and she didn’t move. Her face was still tilted toward mine, her lips still parted, and when our eyes locked again, her breath hitched a second time.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth for a half second before it darted away again, like she couldn’t help it. I pressed the final piece of tape to her forehead and let my hand fall to my knee, forcing myself to breathe through the want humming under my skin.
“You’re all patched up,” I said, voice low.
She looked at me, eyes glassy but focused. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, dragging my hand over her cheek, neck, and down her arm Goose bumps broke out over her skin from my touch, and it took all my strength to remove my touch from her. “Let’s put on the Cubs game and relax.”
“Okay.” She stared at me, eyes wide and face covered in blush. But then her gaze moved down, and she frowned. “I got blood on your shirt! I’m sorry.” She bolted up. “I can try to get it out. Here, let me wash it.”
“Sloane, honey, it’s okay. I don’t care. Not the first time I got blood on a shirt.” I shrugged it off and turned the TV on. “You’re stressing right now, and I’m asking you to sit with me and relax.”
“But your shirt!”
“It’ll be fine. This is an old shirt anyway.” I held out a hand, waiting, hoping she’d take it. It took a minute, but she swallowed and reached out for me, where I settled her against my side as I found the game.
Once it was on, I relaxed into the cushion and realized that truly, no other place in the world felt better than the couch next to her.
It was strange to be certain about that.
It didn’t make sense—we hadn’t had much time alone, but there was something pulling at me when it came to Sloane Mercer.
A feeling I wanted to pay attention to, even if I wasn’t sure yet where it would lead.