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“I can change it if you don’t like it.” He nods his head at his phone. “Why don’t you pick the next song?”

“That’s fine.” I turn away from him and turn on the faucet. I wash the cutting boards and set them to dry on the dish rack. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his gaze on my face as I wash the knives, taking way longer than necessary so I don’t have to meet his eyes. Not yet.

He grabs the bowl and dumps all the veggies into the pan and stirs. Then covers it and reduces the flame. I watch his back and how the ends of his hair graze the collar of his shirt, how his muscles flex and stretch with his every move.

“Ouch.” Damn it. I cut myself.

He’s by my side in a second. “What happened?”

“Nothing, it’s a small cut, I’m fine.”

He turns off the water and grabs some paper towels. He takes my hand in his and presses the folded towel into the heel of my palm where the small cut wells with blood.

“That’s okay. It’s nothing.” I try to pull away, but he holds me in place.

“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt.” His hands are so warm around my mine, and he holds the paper against the cut with such gentleness. Everywhere we touch, my skin tingles.

“Let’s have a look-see.” He lifts the paper, and blood wells again. He puts pressure back on the cut. He’s so close, his face inches away from mine. My hand cradled in his. I’m faint. Not because of the cut or the blood. I’m faint because of him, because of how close he is. I’m drunk by his proximity.

“Come on, let’s take a little walk.” He tugs at my arm, holding my hand still, and I follow him down the hall. He pushes a door open and turns the light on. It’s a bathroom, with sage-green walls and gleaming white tile floors. He guides me backward. “Sit.”

I obey and sit on the side of the bathtub. He reaches under the sink cabinet and grabs a red first aid case, never letting go of my hand, the paper towel still pressed between his fingers and my palm.

He kneels in front of me. Pulls the paper towel away and tosses it into a garbage pail. The cut is no longer bleeding, but it’s stained red and stings a little. He opens the first aid kit and takes out disinfecting wipes, ointment, and Band-Aids. He cleans the cut and bandages it with the accuracy of a surgeon.

I’m in awe of him. My whole life, I’ve never had anyone care for me like this. I’ve never had anyone mend my scrapes and bruises. “Thanks, Doctor Dylan.” I try for levity.

He looks up at me. He smiles and my cheeks burn, heat spreading into my neck.

“I had to mend a lot of scraped knees. Tommy was accident prone growing up.”

“I heard that!” Tommy pops around the doorframe, half of his body leaning into the small space. He makes me jump. I lose my balance and start to fall backward into the tub. Dylan grabs my arms and pulls me back. My body shifts forward. We both fumble to the floor, me half straddling him, the first aid kid tumbling with us.

Tommy cackles and steps back. “And I’m the one who’s accident prone,” he calls from the hall. “Carry on, kids, take your time. I’ll check on the food.” His laugh echoes behind him.

Dylan and I look at each other, the blush on my face burning hotter. We’re a tangle of limbs and scattered Band-Aids. I try to get off him, but I can’t quite push myself up. Not without touching him, not without pushing against his chest for leverage and not with only one good hand.

He holds my waist and tries to lift me up. I press a socked foot into the floor, slip, land on him again. He bangs his head on the cabinet behind him.

“Ouch. You okay?” I reach for his head, my fingertips brush his hair before I catch myself and pull my hand back.

Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover this moment. We’re like two octopuses in a wrestling match. I allow myself to look at him.

“I’m fine.” His lips spread in a smile, then a laugh. His entire body shakes with it.

I can’t help but laugh with him. “This feels like a game of Twister gone very wrong.”

“Or very right,” he says.

My face is on fire. And other parts of me are on fire too. His muscles flex under me—hard and strong. I need to get off him, but I don’t want to.

He leans back, his shoulders pressing against the cabinets. Gives me a hand. I take it with my good one and push a knee onto the floor. He guides me up. My legs are shaky. The moment we no longer touch, I miss it. I miss the heat of his skin. I miss the strength of his body, and the press of his legs tangled in mine. I want to go back. I want a re-do. I want to be near him again and this time ignore the awkwardness and just feel.

He sits up and picks up the scattered contents of the first aid kit, putting the kit in the cabinet again once he’s done. Not a trace of the last few minutes remains. The moment undone. And yet, his touch lingers on my skin, even as I miss it.

Want it.

Crave it.