-Vaughn Blackmore:
The cold is sharp against my skin.
Not just cold—biting. It seeps through too quickly, pressing straight into the heat of the injury like it's trying to freeze it in place. My shoulder throbs under it, the pain pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm that hasn't decided whether it wants to fade or settle in.
But it's not just the ice.
It's his hand.
Still there.
Firm. Steady. Holding the pack exactly where it should be, like he has no intention of letting me adjust it myself. His fingers press just enough to keep it in place, not careless, not hesitant—controlled in a way that feels… deliberate.
Too deliberate.
I don't move at first.
Not because I can't.
Because for a second, my body doesn't know how to react to it.
He's too close.
