You’re perched on the edge of the sink in the dimly lit bathroom of Tannyhill, carefully dabbing a cotton ball dipped in rubbing alcohol against Rafe’s busted lip. He flinches under your touch, his sharp inhale breaking the tense silence between you two. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the crisp scent of the alcohol, but it’s the intensity of his eyes on yours that’s truly suffocating.

“Hold still, Rafe,” you mutter, though your own heartbeat feels anything but steady. Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the butterfly bandages to cover the gash on his cheekbone, still dripping crimson.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he growls, though there’s no real bite in his words.

“Yeah, well, no one else was going to do it, so here we are,” you snap back, refusing to let him see how his presence affects you.

His jaw clenches as you lean closer to press the bandage to his skin. Your knees accidentally brush against his where he’s sitting on the counter, and it feels like a live wire sparking between you. His breathing is uneven now, and the space between your faces shrinks as you focus on his wounds, the heat of his body radiating against yours.

“Why are you even here?” Rafe’s voice is quieter this time, almost husky. His eyes flicker to your lips for the briefest second, sending shivers down your spine.

“Because, Rafe, believe it or not, I’m not entirely heartless,” you reply, trying to sound unaffected, though the tension in the room is suffocating.

Your hand lingers a moment too long against his cheek, your knuckles brushing the stubble there. He tilts his head just slightly, almost like he’s leaning into your touch. His eyes meet yours, and suddenly, the air feels heavier, electric. You can feel his breath, hot and shallow against your skin, as if he’s debating something.

“You always so bossy, or is it just with me?” he mutters, his tone dripping with something that sounds suspiciously like amusement.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a dumbass, I wouldn’t have to be,” you bite back.