"You… you came…"
Ortega found himself at a loss for words.
At that, she gave a tight smile and walked closer.
"Bron didn't tell you?"
Ortega swallowed. "No… How are you feeling?"
"Better."
"I'm sorry…"
"You don't have to apologize…"
Ortega pursed his lips, looking inward at how he'd gotten carried away. The backs of his wrists throbbed. He didn't know why he was hiding them behind him. Sweat slicked down his neck, and he was still trying to catch his breath.
But more than that…
His face burned.
She saw me go crazy.
He fidgeted on the spot, not knowing what to do.
I wonder what she thinks of me… Probably some beast. Is there a way to redeem myself?
She didn't seem bothered by it.
Mae looked around a bit. "Nice. You arranged this place well."
Ortega palmed the back of his neck. Should he say sorry? No. The alpha thing to do was to seem unapologetic. Own it.
He stood straighter, mustering his most nonchalant expression. "Yeah, I mean… wasn't that hard."
He also wanted to tell her how he'd bested a man who held him at gunpoint. He wasn't the same weak guy who cried on her shoulder two days ago.
Maybe he was.
His shoulders dropped a little.
Mae had a conflicted look as she observed him. Ortega looked different from what she was used to. He stood in the corner, shadows clinging thicker around him. His bronzed skin glistened with sweat.
Ortega couldn't afford to meet her eyes. He just stared at his feet, wondering when the heat of her gaze would subside.
There was no denying it now.
She saw everything.
Ortega looked up.
She was stepping toward him.
He took a step back. The wall stopped him. Nowhere to go.
As Mae approached, she noticed the gloomy rain cloud hovering over his head too. She inched closer. The air around him coiled with danger and a powerful musk that made her stomach flip in a good way.
It baffled her how someone could look so vulnerable... yet so attractive.
She stopped in front of him and just stood there while he looked anywhere but at her.
"You're hurt…"
Ortega swallowed, mute.
She should leave. I smell bad.
He didn't know what to say.
Her perfume hit him like a pleasant wave, sweet and comforting. His dark thoughts receded a little. He let out a breath,
"Why'd you come?"
He finally looked up. She was smiling.
She shrugged. "I work here."
Ortega scoffed. "You should rest."
"That's what I planned to do."
"Planned?"
"I heard about it. Bron told me."
"Yeah…" Ortega hummed, shifting into a more casual stance. "Um, I need to—" He gestured.
She was blocking his way.
A playful smile tugged at her lips. She crossed her arms. "Is that why you were training so hard?"
Ortega's cheeks flushed. How could she? That was private.
"I thought… I was alone…"
He winced. Shit. This is so embarrassing.
She laughed.
Heat flooded his face, but relief bloomed with something primal. He rubbed his forearm.
She noticed his bruised knuckles and stopped.
Ortega flinched as his breath caught.
She grabbed his hand without permission.
Her touch was gentle, warm, as she frowned at the bleeding gashes across his knuckles. Then she looked at him.
Ortega was taken aback.
"How can you hate yourself this much?" she asked, confusion and hurt lacing her tone.
Ortega looked away. Heat climbed his neck, his heart racing, yet something bloomed in his chest.
She pouted and slowly thumbed across his battered knuckles. His breath shook, a hiss slipping out.
"Sorry," she said, worry deepening. She looked at his face, at the bandage across the bridge of his nose.
She took his wrist and pulled, guiding him along. He could only follow.
The ceiling fan dried the sweat on his skin, leaving him cold. But where their hands touched, there was warmth.
She led him to the stools behind the counter.
"Sit."
He obeyed.
She disappeared behind the beaded curtain. It rattled as she swept it aside.
Ortega waited, forlorn.
Then she came back, sneakers squeaking, carrying a first aid kit and a bowl of water.
She placed the kit on the counter, then the bowl gently. A towel floated inside. She picked it up and wrung it out, water trickling.
She stepped close enough that his knee brushed her waist.
She opened her palm to him.
He placed his hand in it.
Her brow furrowed as she examined the wounds, too close. Her breath fanned over his knuckles in cool bursts that dulled the sting.
Then she dabbed. Ortega exhaled at the relief.
She asked for his left hand. He gave it. Fewer wounds here. She wiped away dried blood, leaving his knuckles slick.
The towel went back into the bowl, water turning murky pink.
She tore open the kit, pulled out ointment, dragged a stool closer, and sat. Their knees touched.
She popped the cap and tapped her lap.
Ortega hesitated.
She caught his wrist and tugged firmly, forcing his palm onto her lap.
He felt her warmth through the thin fabric of her skirt, knees hiked slightly. Something ticklish coursed through him.
He focused on her movements instead. The ointment on the back of her palm. Her concentrated expression.
She pressed her palms to his knuckles.
He hissed, gripping the counter with his free hand. Sharp fire crawled up his arm.
She closed one eye, annoyed, and massaged gently.
Ortega's eyes stung.
She sniffed and stopped, rubbing her eyes with her forearm.
"Sorry," Ortega muttered.
She blinked away tears.
His heart folded in on itself. Please be the antiseptic.
She resumed with his other hand.
Pain flared, but watching her care for him, the store silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan and his heartbeat, grounded him.
By the time she finished, her face was flushed. Sweat glistened at her collarbones. The fan couldn't fight the combined heat of ointment and touch.
She never asked permission. Never looked at his face. Her frown stayed, caught between worry and anger.
She leaned closer and blew softly. Cool relief numbed the sting.
She released him and looked up.
"On the table."
He placed his hands there.
She rolled out bandages, wrapping soft cotton around his knuckles until the cuts vanished beneath layers. She taped the ends and repeated the process on the other hand.
When she finished, she straightened and wiped her forehead with her forearm. The frown faded. Her face glowed, satisfied.
"Thanks," Ortega said. "Can I move now?"
"Sure."
She packed the kit.
Ortega inspected his bandaged hands. The pain lingered, but it was manageable. He wiggled his fingers.
"Thanks," he repeated, palms resting on his thighs. "I-it won't happen again…" He winced. "Sorry."
The word was barely a whisper.
Clack.
She shut the kit.
A light breeze brushed his face.
She was gone.
Ortega sighed, watching her leave.