His Turn
The storm deepened after nine.
Natalie returned to the main station, this time with Eli’s permission relayed through one of the volunteers. She helped distribute food, took Noah’s temperature twice, and checked a stranded driver whose hands had begun cramping after prolonged cold.
No one treated her as unstable.
No one knew.
The anonymity helped.
The work helped more.
She did not try to join the road teams. When the impulse rose, she recognized it for what it was: the need to prove that one panic attack had not altered her.
She stayed inside.
Eli’s voice moved through the radios all evening.
He directed crews around unstable sections of road, coordinated with the county plows, and decided when a team had been outside long enough. Every uncertain question eventually reached him.
He answered each one.
Natalie began to see the cost in the pauses between calls.
At eleven thirty, the equipment-bay door opened. Wind drove snow across the concrete floor.
Two men entered carrying packs. Eli followed.
His jacket was crusted white. One glove was missing, and blood darkened the knuckles of his right hand.
Natalie stood.
He saw her immediately.
“How are you feeling?”
She almost laughed.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Scrape.”
“Sit down.”
“I need to debrief the team.”
“The team can remove their wet gear while you let me look at your hand.”
One of the men glanced between them, then lowered his head to hide a smile.
Eli noticed.
“Gear room,” he told them.
They disappeared.
He turned back to Natalie.
“I’m fine.”
She had heard the words too many times that day.
“Cabin.”
His eyebrows lifted.
Natalie picked up the red medical bag.
“I can examine you here if you prefer an audience.”
For several seconds he remained motionless.
Then he opened the door to the walkway.
The cabin felt almost intimate after the activity of the station.
Eli stripped off his jacket and hung it near the stove. His shirt clung damply to his back. He flexed his injured hand once.
Natalie set the medical bag on the table.
“What happened?”
“Chain slipped while we were stabilizing a vehicle.”
“Crush injury?”
“No.”
“Impact?”
“Glanced across the knuckles.”
“Can you move everything?”
He opened and closed his hand.
“Yes.”
“Sit.”
Eli looked at the chair.
Then at her.
Natalie waited.
His mouth shifted almost imperceptibly, not quite a smile.
He sat.
The small victory sent an inappropriate pulse of satisfaction through her.
She filled a basin with warm water and gathered saline, gauze, and wrap.
“Take off the shirt.”
“It’s my hand.”
“Your clothes are soaked.”
“I’ll change after.”
“Now.”
His gaze sharpened.
Natalie’s confidence wavered but held.
“Wet clothes contribute to heat loss. I believe someone explained that to me.”
Eli reached behind his neck and pulled the henley over his head.
Natalie forgot the next thing she intended to say.
His body was not shaped by a gym. It was built by work: thick shoulders, powerful arms, a broad chest covered with dark hair. A pale scar crossed one side of his ribs.
Water tracked from his hair down his neck.
She set the saline bottle on the table before she dropped it.
“Hand.”
He extended it.
Natalie stood between his knees because the narrow space beside the table left nowhere else to work.
His thighs bracketed hers without touching.
She took his hand and lowered it into the basin.
His skin was colder than it should have been.
“How long were you without the glove?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“You should have replaced it.”
“We were moving a driver.”
“There were other volunteers.”
“There were.”
“Yet you did it.”
“Yes.”
Natalie cleaned the blood from his knuckles.
Two abrasions crossed the back of his hand. One shallow cut opened when he flexed his index finger.
“No debris,” she said.
“I rinsed it outside.”
“With snow?”
“Water from the truck.”
“That is marginally better.”
Eli looked up at her.
The quiet attention made her aware of how close they were.
She concentrated on the cut.
“You need closure strips.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She dried his hand carefully and applied the first strip.
His fingers rested around her wrist, not restraining her. Steadying his hand. The contact felt heavier than it should have.
“You’re exhausted,” she said.
“I’m tired.”
“Your responses are slower than they were.”
“You’ve known me six hours.”
“I assess people for a living.”
“So do I.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m sitting where you put me.”
Natalie looked at him.
His eyes held hers.
Then she felt the change in his body.
It was not movement exactly. A subtle tightening through his thighs. A deeper breath.
Her gaze dropped before she could stop it.
The worn denim across his lap had become unmistakably taut.
Heat swept through her.
Eli made no attempt to cover himself. He also did not acknowledge what she had seen.
His face remained controlled.
His body had betrayed him.
The knowledge shifted something inside her.
He could direct a station full of rescuers through a storm. He could quiet her breathing with one hand. He could pretend that every touch between them was practical.
He could not command this away.
Natalie returned to the cut with steadier hands.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
She applied the second strip.
Her thumb moved slowly across his knuckle, smoothing the adhesive.
Eli’s fingers tightened around her wrist.
“Enough.”
“The wrap isn’t finished.”
“My hand is fine.”
“You said I could treat it.”
“I let you treat it.”
“Then let me finish.”
The words carried more than either of them had acknowledged.
Eli looked up at her.
Natalie did not move from between his knees.