Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Got You
Becky
“Ahh!” Carrson jerks back with a loud curse, his hand flying up to cover his eye.
“Shit—”
He stumbles, his movements uneven, disoriented. His voice rises, high with panic, until his foot trips on a rock and he goes down hard, landing square on his ass. He sits there, tears streaming down his face, even though he’s clearly not crying.
“Are you okay?” I go to his side without hesitation, instinct taking over.
“Something’s in my eye,” he grits out, his hand cupped over it, trying to trap the pain. “A piece of bark, I think.”
“Let me see.” I crouch beside him.
“No.” He pivots away from me, turning his body to block me out. “Go away.”
His breathing is ragged. His shoulders are tight, every muscle in his body tense like he’s bracing for a hit instead of help.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I say lightly, reaching for his wrist.
He stops me before I can touch him, his hand snapping around mine with more strength than I expect from someone currently being taken out by a splinter.
“I said go away.”
“And I said let me look.” I twist my wrist, not hard enough to hurt. Enough to remind him I’m not fragile. “You’re losing a fight with a tree right now, Carrson. I think we can set aside your pride for thirty seconds.”
I expect him to argue with me again. Then another wave of pain hits, and I see it in the way his shoulders jerk, the way his grip loosens slightly before squeezing again, trying to muscle through it, force it down, overcome something that isn’t cooperating.
I reach for him again. His body flinches away, as if the movement is automatic and he can’t stop it.
“Don’t,” he says, “Don’t touch me. I don’t like it.”
“Stop being such a baby,” I inch closer.
His head turns toward me at that, eyebrows knitting together. He wants to fire back at me, I can tell, but instead he presses his lips together and doesn’t argue.
I scoot in close enough that his knee touches mine, my face lifting to his until the warmth of his breath ghosts across my cheek. He goes completely still when I enter his space, like he’s unsure whether to shove me away and bolt.
“Come on,” I say, gentling my voice, even as my fingers reach for the hand he has clamped over his eye. “Let me see.”
“No,” he bites out, the word edged with panic more than anger. He grabs my wrist and holds.
“You’re okay,” I say quietly, not yanking my wrist free, easing the tension instead, showing him I’m not fighting. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, as if the pain in his eye has tangled with something else entirely.
“Fine,” he spits out.
“Move your hand,” I say, holding his gaze with his good eye.
He hesitates.
At first, it seems like he might refuse. That he’ll shove me away, get up, walk off, anything to put space between us. Instead, with visible effort, he drags his hand away, as if his own body is fighting him.
I inhale when I see how red his eye is. Already irritated and watering, lashes clumped together. He blinks once, hard, and immediately winces.
“Stop doing that,” I murmur, reaching up before he can block me again. This time when he grabs my wrist, it’s less forceful.
“Don’t—”
“You can either let me help you,” I say, my frustration rising, “or you can sit here and cry about it. Totally your call.”
“I’m not—” His voice cuts off as his eye waters again, proving my point.
“Mmm,” I hum. “Very convincing.”
Emotion flashes across his face, annoyance, pain, a stubborn need to be right, but then his grip loosens. He doesn’t let go. Not all the way, but he’s not trying to stop me anymore.
I take that as permission.
“Hold still,” I say again.
I lean in, one hand bracing lightly against his jaw to steady him. The minute I touch him, it hits me. A sudden, unexpected awareness of how close we are, of the rough edge of his stubble under my palm, his breath brushing against my skin.
For a brief second, it throws me. Then I push it aside. Up close, I spot it. A tiny splinter lodged under his lower lid.
“I see it.” I steady my hand. “I’m going to get it.”
“Becky,” he gets out, warning in my name.
“Relax,” I say, reaching carefully toward the tiny fragment. “I’ve got you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. His body goes rigid under my hands, and I hold still too. I don’t know why I said that. It wasn’t part of my plan.
His posture changes. He leans into me. Not fighting as much. Not pushing me away. I adjust my grip, my thumb brushing under his eye to tug the lid down. He holds himself still, contained, as if every instinct in him is telling him to pull away and he’s forcing himself not to.
“Almost done,” I murmur.
I focus on the splinter, carefully hooking it free. “There.” I ease back to show him. A tiny shard rests on my fingertip, damp from his tears. “Crisis averted.”
Then it hits me.
Becky. My name. He said my name.
I lean back to see him properly. “How do you know my name?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t—” I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t worry about it?” I shift back another inch, to put more space between us. “You’ve been ignoring me for months, and now you suddenly know my name?”
“Focus,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely toward his face. “Did you get everything out? It still feels like there’s some in my eye.”
“Oh, I’m focused,” I say, my tone going sharp. “Just not on your eye anymore.”
He exhales hard through his nose, irritation flashing across his expression, but there’s more. A shuttering. Hiding.
“I asked around,” he finally answers.
“That’s not vague at all,” I deadpan. “Super normal behavior.”
Internally, I know I’m being a hypocrite.
He asked a few questions. I’ve done far worse.
My mind drifts back to all those nights in the library, buried under stacks of articles and reports, trying to understand how the world actually works.
Why some diseases get attention and others don’t, who decides where the money goes.
Even before I understood what I was seeing, I knew his face.
Memorized it in black-and-white photos, the kind printed beside headlines that never quite said enough.
His fingers flex against his knee, like he’s deciding whether to shut this down or lean into it. “I wanted to know who you were,” he says finally, the words clipped, reluctant. Then, spitefully, he adds. “Since you’re here bugging me all the time.”
He rubs the back of his hand against his eye, the gesture almost childlike. It’s watering, but not as badly as before. “Besides, you know my name, and I’ve sure as hell never told it to you.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me more closely. Suspicious. The kind that isn’t casual. Like he’s been told to watch for people like me.
My heart stutters. Paranoia kicks in. Does he know? About why I’m really here. But I force it down, logic snapping into place. If Carrson knew, he wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me. He’d be done with me. Running me out of this university and right out of this town.
I roll my eyes, not even bothering to hide it. “Everyone knows your name.”
It’s the truth.
His good eye peers at me. “Really? And what, exactly, does everyone say about me?”
Now it’s my turn to squirm, because I’m not sure how to answer that without giving too much away.
“I don’t know,” I say, reaching down to pick up a dry leaf.
I study it instead of him, rubbing it between my fingers until it crumbles.
“That you’re some kind of leader. Like you’re in charge.
” I glance up at him then, my eyes catching on the way his lashes are damp, the faint redness that remains around his eye.
“Although,” I add, tilting my head slightly, “your authority might take a hit if word gets out you were taken down by a tree.” A grin forms before I can stop it. “Not even the whole tree,” I continue, brushing the leaf dust from my fingers. “Just a very aggressive piece of bark.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but I see his lips twitch.
Once. Gone so fast I might have imagined it because Carrson’s eyes go flat and detached, door slamming closed. The trace of humor disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by coldness. He leans into my space, close enough that instinct kicks in. Warning, telling me to pull back but I don’t.
“You talk a lot,” he says, voice low, even, “for someone who has no idea what she’s getting into.”
“Then enlighten me.” I lift my chin, meeting his gaze, understanding exactly what this is. Him taking the upper hand. Rebuilding the wall I cracked.
I won’t let him.
“There are things here you don’t want to mess with.”
“Oh, yeah?” I put a note of nonchalance into my voice. “Like what?”
He smiles then, but it’s empty, nothing warm about it. “Like me.”
Neither of us moves.
“Good,” I say. “I was getting bored.”