Page 131 of The Fine Line
“Rhett, seriously. I’ve got it. Just… give me a minute.”
“Would you stop being ridiculous?” he snaps. “You might still have glass in your foot. And if I need to take you to the ER, I’d rather not wait until you’re bleeding out all over the tile?—”
“But—”
“Cub,” he cuts in, voice low and firm, “shut up and give me your foot.”
Before I can protest again, he grabs my ankle and pulls me toward him across the counter. I squirm, but the moment I ease the pressure of my nails from my skin, the pain returns full force, sharp and throbbing. It robs me of my fight.
Rhett lifts my foot and inspects the sole. A moment later, his hand shifts to my waist, steadying me as he turns on the faucet and runs the cut under cool water. I slump forward, resting my forehead against the mirror and focusing on breathing.
“Okay,” he says after a minute. “Good news and bad news.”
“Okay?” I mumble, barely above a whisper.
“The good news is, the cut looks worse than it is. You definitely don’t need stitches. But—there’s still a small piece of glass in there. Do you have tweezers?”
“Makeup bag,” I mutter, pointing weakly to the white pouch on the counter.
Rhett keeps one hand around my foot as he pulls the bag over and rummages through it. When he finds the tweezers, he holds them up. “Alright. Deep breath for me.”
“Just do it,” I snap, eyes already squeezing shut.
“It’ll make it easier if?—”
“Rhett. Please.”
He lets out a soft grunt, then quickly plucks the shard from my skin. A sharp hiss tears from my throat at the sting, but before I can even fully recover, he’s pulling me back over the sink, rinsing the cut again.
It burns. I scream out a string of curses loud enough to wake half the building, but slowly—mercifully—the pain dulls. I blink down at the water swirling pink around the drain and realize Rhett was right—the cut’s not as deep as it felt.
“God,” I breathe. “How did something so small hurt that bad?”
“Pain has a good way of disguising itself,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now.
I glance up at him just as he turns away, digging through drawers now. I open my mouth to ask what he’s looking for—but another flare of pain hits, sudden and sharp. I flinch, bracing myself against the mirror.
I hear him pouring something—alcohol, probably—followed by more water. Then, a gentle patting as he dries the area.
I think he’s done. But then I see him pull out a small white tube and twist the cap.
“What now?” I ask, already exhausted.
“Antibiotic cream,” he says.
When he starts to apply it, I instinctively try to pull away, but he grips my ankle tighter.
“Hey. You’re fine,” he murmurs. “Youneed this.”
I stop fighting, chewing the inside of my cheek as he rubs the ointment in with surprising gentleness. Then he presses a piece of gauze over it and grabs medical tape.
“Last thing,” he says.
The tape wraps snugly around my heel, and he steps back, inspecting his work. Finally, he lets me go.
I slump against the mirror, eyes closed, exhaling in relief.
I hear drawers opening and closing again, things tossed into the bathroom trash. Then his hands are back—this time patting the tops of my knees.
