21 Cassius #3
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, and it sounds pathetic, but I can’t stop. “I didn’t even register you were there for a second. I didn’t register anything.”
Her palm slides to my cheek, warm. She holds my face like she’s anchoring me, eyes steady. “You came back.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s not enough,” I mutter. Anger turns inward on myself, ugly as fuck. “It’s not enough that I came back. You shouldn’t have to be the one dragging me back.”
Her thumb strokes my cheek once. “I’m not dragging you. I’m reminding you.”
“It shouldn’t take you bleeding to remind me,” I snap, then regret it immediately because it’s not her fault my brain is a mess.
Zae doesn’t flinch. She just keeps her hand on my face, grounding, stubborn. “Stop,” she tells me, voice firm. “Stop punching yourself in the face. You’re doing the thing.”
I stare at her.
She exhales slowly, then tries again with humor that’s thinner now. “If you spiral too hard, I’m going to start charging you for emotional labor.”
A laugh breaks out of me, half a breath, then it dies. Zae’s eyes soften as she watches it happen.
“Let me fix your elbow,” I murmur, already turning toward my trunk.
“I can fix my elbow,” she argues.
“You can,” I agree, then glance at her with a look that shuts it down. “Let me anyway.”
She hesitates. Her gaze flicks over my face and she reads everything there, every ugly thought I’m trying to swallow.
“Okay,” she relents quietly.
I grab the kit I keep in my car because skating comes with blood whether you want it to or not. I guide her to sit on the edge of my trunk, then crouch in front of her. Her elbow is scraped and split. Not hospital-level, but enough to make my stomach turn anyway.
“Hold still,” I mutter, tearing open antiseptic wipes.
“Bossy,” she mumbles, but her tone stays soft, trying to keep me from sinking.
I clean the wound carefully. She sucks in a breath and her fingers curl on the trunk edge.
“Sorry,” I whisper again.
“You didn’t invent pain,” she shoots back, still trying to lighten it, but her eyes keep flicking to my face.
I apply medical glue where it needs it, then gauze, then tape.
I press the tape down with more care than makes sense, smoothing it, securing it, making sure it holds.
Her elbow’s wrapped in a neat, taped-down gauze because I made sure I got that right at least, but I can still see the blood seeping at the edge, faint red staining through the white.
I swallow hard and keep working because my hands need a job. Zae’s fingers slide into my hair briefly, a soft touch meant to comfort me. It eats away at me instead.
“You’re doing great,” she murmurs, and her voice is gentle in a way that makes me feel worse.
“I’m not,” I mutter, and my eyes stay on the tape so I don’t have to look at her.
Her hand cups my cheek again, turning my face up to hers. “You are,” she insists. “You’re just… you’re in your head.”
I laugh once, humorless. “Where else would I be?”
She shakes her head slightly, eyes locked on mine. “Cass. That dude cut me off. You saw it. You ran down there fast. You checked on me. You didn’t let anyone talk over me. You protected me.”
“I lost it,” I correct, voice low.
Her mouth tightens. “Not really. I mean, the bike might disagree, but it doesn’t get a vote.”
The distinction doesn’t help the way she thinks it does. I finish pressing down the tape, then sit back on my heels and stare at her bandaged elbow until my vision blurs.
Zae’s hand stays on my cheek, thumb rubbing slow. “Hey,” she murmurs. “You’re with me.”
My chest aches. I look at her arm again, then back at her face.
“You ducked,” I get out, and my voice catches.
Her brows lift. “It’s those cat-like reflexes.” She paws at the air like she’s clawing it.
“Don’t,” I snap, not angry at her, but at the casual way she’s trying to shrink what just happened. “Don’t joke that off.”
Her expression softens, and for a moment the humor drops entirely. “Okay,” she agrees quietly. “Okay. I won’t.”
Silence stretches. The park noise feels far away now, muffled by the space inside my head where I keep replaying that swing of my elbow and the way her eyes went wide. That hits something in my chest.
Zae’s voice gentles again, softer, coaxing. “Let’s go back to the dorm.”
I nod without a word.
I stand, open the passenger door for her, and help her in carefully. She settles, pulling her seatbelt on with her good arm. I close the door gently, then walk around to the driver’s side.
When I get in, I stare straight ahead for a second, because my hands feel wrong on the steering wheel since my head still feels a fraction behind my body.
Zae reaches across the console and laces her fingers through mine, then squeezes.
I squeeze back automatically, grip a little too tight, then force myself to loosen so I don’t hurt her.
The pressure of her hand is the only thing that feels real. She rests her head against the seat and turns her face toward me, soft and tired and trusting, and it makes something ugly twist in my chest, because she thinks I’m her safe place. And I want to be.
But wanting doesn’t fix the fact that for a second, I wasn’t.