Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paul
I found her.
The thought keeps looping, and I’m afraid that if I let go of it for even a second, the universe will correct itself and take her back.
I stand there with my first-aid kit clutched in both hands, watching her sit on my couch as if she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there, and my chest is too tight for the amount of air in the room.
I thought I’d killed her.
But she’s breathing, she’s here, and she’s wearing my hoodie.
The hem brushes mid-thigh, though when she sits on my couch, the threat of it riding up has my mind in a tailspin.
It doesn’t help that the fabric is stretched, accentuating her curves, causing my brain to keep short-circuiting.
Not to mention, the flush of her skin against the white leather. It’s too much, yet not enough.
Apparently, she’s going to be the death of me, not the other way around.
Lennon keeps shifting like she doesn’t know what to do with her body or where to put her hands.
Every time she moves, it’s a tease, and I have to actively remind myself to look at her eyes because if my hoodie rides up and reveals any more of her soft skin, I will be tempted to trail my fingers along each beautiful curve.
Eyes, Paul. Eyes.
Except that’s harder than it should be, because every time I meet her gaze, I see the scared, light-blue eyes from my night terrors instead of the curious ones looking back at me now.
My stomach drops when I think about how stupid it was to drive Mabel to her doctor’s appointment today. I told her that she should ask Marcus or Renée instead, but she needled me into agreeing, and she was right to do so. Marcus has a full-time job, and I’m mostly available.
I thought I’d managed it. Got her there, took her back home, and everything was fine. I was on my way home when the rain started, and out of nowhere, I fucking fell asleep. For a millisecond, my eyes shut, only to open to the familiar sound of my nightmare, of a car hitting a body.
All I could do was slam on the brakes, even though it was already too late. My only saving grace is I wasn’t going very fast.
I swallow hard and force myself back into the present. Maybe agreeing to drive today was the best decision I could have made after all, because there she is, and here I am.
I found her.
She’s watching me expectantly, patiently, in a way that somehow makes me feel worse, like she trusts me not to fail her.
Her fingers are flexing now as if she’s feeling the sting there again.
The abrasion on her temple is red and angry, but superficial.
I know that. I’ve assessed it three times already from across the room because distance felt safer than standing this close.
Setting the first-aid kit on the coffee table, I open it with hands that appear steadier than they feel. There’s alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, antiseptics, butterfly strips I hope I won’t need, but brought anyway because hope is not a plan.
“Okay.” My tone is the one I use with patients whose fear I need to contain before it spills everywhere. “I’m going to clean your temple first. It’s superficial, but it’ll sting.”
“I’m brave,” she teases, trying for light, but it rings true, like everything she’s said so far.
“So I’ve gathered.” My mouth twitches as I crouch in front of her, so maybe I’m not as intimidating as I would be standing over her. Then, I hold up the wipe slightly. “May I?”
She nods, and the moment I touch her, everything in me lights up and locks down at the same time. Her skin is warm under my fingers, and I anchor to that sensation deliberately, the way I’ve trained myself to anchor to breath during paralysis.
She flinches when the antiseptic hits, a little inhale, and my free hand moves without conscious thought, settling at the side of her jaw, steadying her head.
“Shh, I know,” I murmur. “You’re so brave for me.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, and for a heartbeat, I think I’ve overstepped, that I’ve crossed some invisible line, but she doesn’t pull away. She holds my gaze, and something quiet settles between us.
She’s mine. I can feel it in every fiber of my being.
I lean in, catching the faintest hint of the same sweet smell that haunted me yesterday at the Vaughn house, and it takes everything I have not to press my nose into her hair and inhale deeply.
Instead, I dab the sterile cloth over her torn skin one last time and lean back, finally taking a full breath.
My hands are steady now, which is good, because they need to be. I move to her palm next, inspecting the road rash there, and she winces before I even touch it.
“This one’s going to complain more,” I warn. “Do you need a break first?”
“I’m okay.”
“I’m going to be gentle,” I promise, watching how she licks her plush lips.
I have to avert my gaze back to the task at hand, because, damn, it’s been a long time, and having her this close, her skin warm under my hands and nothing but my hoodie between her and everything else, is already doing a number on my self-control.
The last thing either of us needs is for me to sport a hard-on in these sweatpants.
I’m still surprised she came home with me without protest, and I don’t want to ruin that trust by making her uncomfortable now.
I am not going to waste that by letting my body make decisions my brain hasn’t approved. I’ve wanted to take care of her longer than she’s been aware I exist. Long before I knew her name or saw her face, before she was anything more than an ache I couldn't explain or place.
Now that she’s in front of me, I refuse to be the reason she leaves.
As I work, my mind keeps trying to sprint ahead.
I never dreamed of this, not once. In every version of my life that felt real, it ended the day hers did.
Either with prison bars and blood on my hands, or with an empty house and the slow grind of routines until the nightmares finally won.
I never allowed myself a version where she sits on my couch, wearing my clothes, and trusting me with her injuries and her truths.
“Paul?” she asks softly.
“Yes?” I look up immediately.
“You’re… very focused.”
A quiet laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s my polite way of not panicking.”
She studies me, head tilted. “You don’t seem like the panicking type.”
I meet her eyes again, deliberately this time, and let her see the cracks, the careful steadiness that is holding by a thread. “I am,” I admit. “I’m just disciplined about it.”
Another naked truth dropped gently between us. I’m starting to realize how addictive this is, this strange, disarming honesty. And her adorable rambling is absolute catnip for my psychologist brain.
I carefully tape the gauze in place, but stay crouched in front of her. She’s fidgeting again, her toes curling and not quite reaching the carpet.
“So… you’re not a serial killer?”
I choke on air. “What?”
“Well, I guess one wouldn’t have that reaction.” She narrows her eyes. “Or maybe that’s exactly how they would.”
“You’re wondering if I’m going to kill you, but you still came home with me?”
My soulmate thinks I’m a gay serial killer. Great.
But then again, I did hit her with my car, so honestly, I’m counting my lucky stars that’s the worst-case scenario she’s entertaining right now.
“It’s not like you gave me much choice.” She shrugs and yawns. “And apparently, I have questionable self-preservation skills.”
Chuckling, I shift and ease myself down onto the couch beside her, leaving enough space between us to be deliberate about it. “I’d doubt that, considering how you managed not to get killed today.”
Even if I thought I’d be the end of you.
She smiles faintly and looks down at her palm, then wiggles her fingers one by one softly, as if she’s counting them, and cold runs through my entire system.
Is she doing a reality check?
Am I dreaming?
I glance at my watch. It’s half past four. Then I turn my gaze toward the first-aid kit I itch to pack up neatly, before checking the time again, which is still the same.
This is waking life.
Thank God.
“You did great,” she praises, holding her hand up toward me.
Right. She’s inspecting my work on her palm, not questioning reality. Just because I’m this deep in dreams and what comes with it doesn’t mean she is.
“Glad to be of service, Lennon.” She smiles when I say her name, then looks at me like she’s trying to figure something out. “What?”
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “You just… say my name in this kind of way. I don’t even know how to describe it.”
“It’s uncommon. It fits you better than something ordinary would.”
Her brows lift. “You think so?”
“I do.” I smile, thinking about how many times the thought has already crossed my mind. Of course, she’s like this. Of course, she’s called that. Of course, it’s her.
She was made for me.
“My dad named me after John Lennon.” Her smile turns a little sad.
The urge to ask her about herself and everything that makes her who she is hits me hard. I want to know about her father and that sadness. About the way she carries loss so quietly, it hums under her words.
It would be easy to slip into old habits and let curiosity turn clinical, to turn connection into questions, intimacy into analysis. I’ve done that before, built relationships with women who should have been my patients, confused closeness with caretaking.
I won’t do that to her.
She’ll tell me when she wants to, and when she’s ready. Right now, everything between us is already tilted toward too serious. I want her to want to come back and spend more time with me, not make her want to flee by overwhelming her with deeply personal questions.
“You said your apartment isn’t far from the crosswalk. Have you lived here long?”
I can’t believe I haven’t seen her before. God knows I would have noticed her if we crossed paths.
“No, maybe a few days?”
“Days?”
“Yep. And I managed to grab myself a job before you…” She freezes. “Wait. What time is it?”
“It’s half past four. Why—”