Page 23 of Smoke Show

"Eve! Did you cut yourself? Let me see."

Brady's words penetrated, and I pulled off my earmuffs, eyes widening when I caught his expression. Mouth agape, brows drawn in concern.

"Do you need a doctor? Tell me you didn't catch it on your saw."

Brady's voice boomed, and I flinched at the volume after the muffled quiet of my hearing protection.

"Relax, Brady. I'm fine."

"I'll relax when I know you don't need stitches."

Brady cupped his hands around mine, tugging me toward the edge of the stage under the bright lights.

"It's just a splinter," I soothed.

He bent over my palm. "I can see that now," he said grudgingly.

"Caleb. Get me the first aid kit."

Caleb rushed to do his bidding, no doubt incurring hearing loss from the sheer volume with which Brady delivered his demand. Slowly, I realized that the cast was milling around in clumps as they watched the drama between Brady and I unfold. Any pretense at practicing lines had ground to a halt.

"Stop shouting, Brady. I'm fine."

"I never shout!" he shouted.

The adorable man was clearly worried. It'd be cute if it weren't scaring his students.

"Right! Because this is theater, so we call it PROJECTING. Emoting if you're feeling fancy," I intoned with a smile for our audience, before whispering just for his ears, "and asshole if you're scaring your students. I'm fine, Brady. Knock off the He-Man act."

Brady dissolved into a hail of muttered curses, thankfully uttered too low for his students to overhear.

Caleb rushed up with the first aid kit, and Brady pawed through it, emerging triumphantly with tweezers.

"I could probably just yank it out with my fingers," I offered, trailing off when Brady frowned. "Or… not," I finished.

I smiled at the cast, nervously milling about and said, "why don't you all keep running your lines. Principal Gleason is helping me real quick and he'll be right back with you all."

"Reckless. Gonna give me a heart attack." Brady continued grousing under his breath as he worked over my hand.

I pretended not to hear him, instead painting a smile on while he dug around in my hand with his tweezers.

He pulled, and I felt the sliver slide from my palm, breathing a sigh of relief. Brady tucked his tongue between his teeth, focused on sanitizing my hand with an alcohol wipe before applying a bandage.

"There," he pronounced, twisting my palm in the light. "Almost good as new."

"You aren't going to kiss it better?" I pouted, trying for quiet but failing.

"Kiss!" Grace yelled, picking up on the one word I would have rather the students not overheard.

"Yeah, kiss," Mitch urged, picking up the cry.

The rest of the cast swung around, until we were the focus of twenty young faces, all chanting, "Kiss! Kiss!"

Students: two. Brady and I keeping things on the down-low, negative ten.

I expected Brady to shut down their chorus quickly. He was the last man to be influenced by a room full of teenagers. I'd already put more space between us, sad to abandon his warmth, but needing to at least try to keep a respectable distance between us.

He eyed me, something like mischief in his gaze. As if sensing a new tension between us, the students fell silent.

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