Chapter 2
He didn't let go right away.
The white light was gone, but his thumb stayed pressed lightly against the inside of my wrist, right over the faint line where the cut had been. It was pink, thin as a thread, still warm from whatever he had done. My hand was palm-up in both of his, and I could feel my pulse knocking against his fingers.
I tried to pull back.
He held on, just firm enough that I stopped trying.
"This doesn't look like a fall," he said. His voice was low. "More like you got cut."
I didn't answer. The lamp on the desk behind him threw that soft amber light across the room, and I watched the way it caught the edge of his glasses. My own glasses had slipped down a little, and my hair kept falling forward. I could taste copper in my mouth from biting my cheek.
He finally looked up at my face. "This wound wasn't treated right," he said. "Let me see."
"You already saw it," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "You fixed it."
"I didn't fix it. I closed it."
He let go then, carefully, like he was afraid I'd flinch, and turned toward the small bathroom off the main room. The apartment was one of the campus housing units, the kind with cinderblock walls and a sink that rattled when the heat kicked on. He opened the cabinet above the sink. I heard him move bottles around.
I sat on the edge of the desk and tucked my wrist against my shirt. The vest felt too tight suddenly. The crest on it, that little embroidered shield, always made me sit straighter when I wore it, like someone was checking.
He came back with a plain white kit, the plastic one every dorm had, with the red cross sticker peeling at the corner. He set it on the desk next to me and flipped the latch.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Even if you heal fast, you still need medicine," he said. He said it exactly the way he'd said it a minute before, like he was quoting himself to make me hear it. "You're an omega without a wolf spirit. That glow doesn't replace antibiotics."
I stared at the kit. "I heal fast enough. It's already closed."
"Closed isn't clean." He pulled out gauze, a small brown bottle of antiseptic, a tube of ointment. His left wrist turned and I caught the dark leather strap of his watch, the gold bezel catching the light. 10:47. "If dirt got in there when it happened, closing it just seals it in."
"It was a fall. It wasn't dirty."
He paused, cotton pad in his hand. He didn't look up. "Hallway floor is dirty. Parking lot is dirty. Wherever you fell, it wasn't sterile."
I felt my face get hot. The lie about the fall sounded thinner every time I said it.
"I'm fine," I said. I pulled my sleeve down over the scar. "If I go to the clinic for this, they log it. You know they do."
That made him glance up.
I swallowed. "Omegas without a wolf get a different form. They always flag it. Extra notes. They call your advisor. Last time I went in for a sprained ankle, they kept me an extra hour asking about my family history, like I was going to go feral in the waiting room."
He was quiet for a second, breathing. I could see his jaw work a little.
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not taking you to the clinic."
"Then why the kit?"
"Because this one doesn't create a record." He unscrewed the brown bottle. The sharp smell of antiseptic hit the air. "No intake form. No pack nurse logging that the omega without a spirit needed care again. Just you letting me clean it right."
He held his hand out, palm up, waiting.
I didn't move at first. Part of me wanted to keep that faint pink line covered and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, the light and the blood and the way he'd looked at the cut like he knew exactly what kind of edge made it.
But his hand stayed there, steady. His thumb had that slight tremor, like the healing had cost him something.
I put my wrist back in his hand.
He didn't make a big deal about it. He just adjusted his grip, turned my arm palm-up again, and pressed the damp cotton pad to the line. I hissed before I could stop myself. It stung, a clean bright sting that was different from the dull throb before.
"Breathe," he said quietly.
I did. He worked quickly, wiping once, then again with ointment, his glasses slipping a little as he leaned in. The ointment was cool. He laid a small square of gauze over the scar and taped it, not thick like before, just enough to keep it covered.
"There," he said, smoothing the tape with his fingertip. "Leave it till morning."
I looked down at the small white patch, so much smaller than the thick wrap I'd come in with. It felt strange to have someone else treat it without making it a big, official thing.
"Thank you," I said.
He started packing the kit, but his eyes flicked back to my wrist. "If it was a cut, not a fall," he said, very softly, not quite a question, "you don't have to tell me tonight. But don't tell me it was clean when it wasn't."
May you like
I didn't answer that. I couldn't. The lie was still sitting between us, but the gauze was there now, and his watch ticked quietly in the warm room.
He closed the kit with a soft click and stayed right there beside me, not pushing, not leaving.
