Page 8 of Ethan (Pecan Pines #7)

Ethan

The door creaked open, and I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Right on time. Dean stepped inside, holding the usual cup of coffee.

His hair was a mess, and he looked drained. Had he already come back from training? His usual cocky grin was gone, replaced with something more subdued.

“You again,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised?”

He didn’t respond, just walked over and held the coffee out to me.

For a moment, I stayed seated, crossing my arms as I stared him down. Was this really going to become a daily ritual?

Eventually, I sighed, standing up and taking the cup from his hand. The lid was warm under my fingers. I popped it off and inhaled. Coffee with a hint of chocolate.

I took a tentative sip. Not bad. Still a tad too sweet, but the balance was getting better.

Letting out a soft, satisfied sigh, I looked up to find Dean watching me.

He had this small, almost shy smile on his face, like he was waiting for my verdict. Heat pooled in my stomach, and I had to swallow hard.

I set the cup down on the desk. “What is it this time?” I asked, a bit too defensively. “Did you pick another fight with Griffin?”

Dean’s smile faltered, and a hurt flickered across his features.

“Why are you asking about Griffin?” he said, his voice tight with irritation. “I’m the injured one here.”

He lifted a finger toward me, and I followed his gaze. It was the same one with a papercut I’d healed yesterday, now gone, of course.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You didn’t need to come in for this. You’re fine.”

He shrugged, clearly brushing off my comment, and asked, “What did you think about the coffee?”

“Mm.” I took another sip, not willing to give him the satisfaction of admitting it was good.

That earned me a wide smile, one that made me pause. What was he so pleased about?

“Well,” he said, turning toward the door, “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

Dean had barely turned toward the door when the metallic tang hit me. It was subtle but unmistakable. Blood.

My wolf stirred, sharp and alert.

“Wait,” I called, rounding the counter and moving toward him.

He stopped, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

“You’re bleeding somewhere,” I said, scanning him.

“No, I’m not,” Dean said, taking a step back.

I stepped closer, my hands hovering near his torso without making contact.

A tingling sensation spread through my fingertips, subtle and insistent, like an unseen thread pulling me toward the source of the injury.

“Is your rib not healed yet?” I asked, my gaze narrowing as the sensation lingered.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away. “It’s nothing. Just hit something yesterday.”

“Nothing, huh?” I tsked, taking his wrist to guide him to an examination room. He stiffened at the contact, the tension in his arm catching me off guard.

I glanced at him. Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? Why bother showing me a healed papercut but hide this?

“Lie down,” I instructed, gesturing toward the exam table.

“I’m fine,” Dean said, shifting back slightly.

I gave him a look that left no room for argument. “Now.”

Reluctantly, he climbed onto the table, his movements stiff. Slowly, he pulled up his shirt, and I immediately cursed under my breath.

The rib injury I’d treated before had reopened, the skin angry and raw.

Bruises mottled his sides, some fresh, others darkening. Claw marks raked across the side of his torso, crusted with dried blood.

I clenched my jaw, anger flaring hot and fast. “Griffin should have brought you here immediately.”

Dean winced as I touched his side, my fingers careful but firm as I pressed around the wounds.

“He told me to come,” he muttered. “Didn’t see the point. Just a scratch. Really.”

“Some scratch,” I shot back, exhaling hard to calm myself.

My hand hovered over the largest gash, letting the healing flow through me. Warmth spread from my palm, a steady thrum of energy pooling into the wound.

The torn edges began to knit together, the worst of the bleeding stopping almost immediately.

But the deeper tissue resisted, pulling more energy from me until a dull ache crept across my chest.

Large injuries like this always took more out of me, the effort leaving a faint ache in my chest. By the time the wound closed as much as I could manage, sweat prickled at my temple.

I reached for the ointment, smoothing it over the smaller bruises. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or come in yesterday?”

He didn’t answer, just stared past me at the wall, his jaw working, tension bleeding off him in waves.

I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?”

He let out a long breath. “Back in Thornebane… you get hurt, you deal with it. Patch yourself up, keep moving. If you can’t handle it, you hope no one notices. Because if they do?—”

He cut himself off, his throat working. “You don’t show weakness there. Not if you want to survive.”

Something inside me sank. I’d always known Thornebane was rough, but hearing it like that made it more than just fact. It was survival carved into him, sharp as bone.

“So yeah… I didn’t think about coming to you.

Not because I didn’t trust you, just that’s not what I do back home.

” Dean’s hands curled against the edge of the table.

“Like yesterday at Maurice’s cabin. I charged in, didn’t think, just acted.

Same instinct. Griffin called me out for it, and he was right. I put him and Maurice at risk.”

I watched him. No cocky grin this time, no smart remark ready on his tongue. Just regret, sitting heavy across his shoulders. It looked strange on him.

“Dean,” I said carefully. “I know you were trying to do the right thing. But rushing in without thinking is dangerous for you and for everyone counting on you. You’ve got to trust yourself enough to pause before you act.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Story of my life, I suppose.”

I almost snapped back at him but stopped. He spoke plainly, and the honesty hit harder than I expected.

He went on, quieter now. “It’s just not what I’m used to.”

I leaned slightly closer. “What are you used to?”

His mouth twisted, like the answer was hard to swallow. For a second, I thought he’d shut down again. But then his shoulders slumped.

“Pecan Pines… it’s different. Everything here is slower. Quieter. Makes me realize how rough it was back home. Even if I hated it, sometimes I miss it.”

He was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the clinic walls. Then, almost to himself: “Is it strange? To miss it, I mean.”

The question hit like a stone dropped in still water. He gave a small, humorless chuckle. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t know where I fit here. Back at Thornebane, harsh as it was, at least I knew what to expect.”

There it was. Not the reckless troublemaker everyone saw, but someone caught between two worlds, one that had broken him and one he hadn’t yet learned to belong to.

Dean was trying, in his own way, to prove himself. To be something more than what Thornebane had made him.

Then, almost shyly, he added, “You know, when I was a kid, Carter used to make me these banana and mayo sandwiches.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Banana and mayo?”

Dean laughed, and this time it was real, warm enough to shake some of the weight off his face.

“Yeah. Weird, right? I think at first it was supposed to punish me. I’d get into fights, and he thought giving me something gross might stop me.

But every time, I’d eat it anyway. And somehow… it made things better.”

I couldn’t help it. The image of a younger Dean stubbornly gnawing on a disgusting sandwich was too absurd not to laugh. “That’s one way to end a fight.”

“Worked on me,” Dean said, grinning.

Dean slid off the exam table, but the second his feet hit the ground, a wince cut across his face. His hand brushed over his thigh as he shifted his weight.

“Dean,” I said sharply. “What else are you hiding?”

He froze, then sighed. “It’s nothing.”

I crossed my arms. “Try again.”

He groaned, muttered something I didn’t catch, and pulled up his pant leg. The bite mark was unmistakable, the skin around it swollen and red.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, though the wince said otherwise.

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, crouching to inspect it. “You know, you’d save us both time if you came in when these happened instead of waiting until you’re half-dead.”

Dean gave a sheepish shrug. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Dean,” I said, softer now as I reached for the ointment, “just come to me. Don’t wait. Don’t brush it off. Let me help.”

He nodded, his voice low, steady. “Okay.”

I glanced up, holding his gaze. “Promise?”

I clutched the paper bag tightly as I stepped into the gym. Growls, thuds, and sharp exhales from sparring echoed off the walls.

Scanning the room, I spotted Griffin and Dean off to one side, their corner lit by a strip of sunlight filtering through a high window.

Dean was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, his hair damp with sweat.

I approached, nodding at Griffin first, then at Dean. Dean stayed put, tugging up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.

The movement drew my eyes to the sharp lines of his abs, muscles flexing under his skin. I had to swallow hard, quickly dragging my gaze back up before Griffin could notice.

Griffin frowned. “Something wrong, Ethan? Is there an injury report I need to be aware of?”

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Nothing like that. Actually, I’m here for Dean.”

Griffin shrugged but didn’t question it. He turned toward Dean and jerked his head. “Dean, over here.”

Dean walked over, looking surprised and a little curious. “Me?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the paper bag in my hand.

“I’m just doing my usual rounds,” I said, a little too casually, hiding the paper bag behind me. “Thought I’d check on how your leg is doing.”

His expression softened, the curiosity shifting into something lighter, almost playful. “You came all the way here just to check on me?”

My cheeks warmed, and I cleared my throat, ignoring his question. “How’s the leg?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted his weight onto the injured leg, bouncing slightly before breaking into a jog in place. “Good,” he said, grinning. “See?”

I raised a brow, remembering how he brushed it off yesterday. “You’re sure? No pain if you push yourself too hard?”

Dean hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Well… maybe a little. But really, it’s so much better. Barely noticeable.”

“Not really sure whether I should trust what you say.”

Dean smirked, stepping a little closer. “Fine. I’ll do ten push-ups. No. Fifty. Right now, just to prove it.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t need to go that far. Anyway…” I held out the paper bag. He blinked, clearly surprised. “For you.”

“What’s this?”

“I got curious about what you said, so I tried it,” I said, my voice faltering as I felt the heat rise to my face. “Had an extra, thought you might want it.”

Dean took the bag carefully, almost reverently, and peeked inside. A grin spread across his face as he pulled out the sandwich and sniffed it.

“No way,” he said, surprised. “You actually made it?”

I tried to look anywhere but at him. “Just figured I’d see what all the fuss was about. I had to look up how to make it online. I wasn’t sure if it was exactly how your brother did it.”

Dean took a big bite, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “It’s perfect.”

I watched as his whole face lit up while he took another bite, grin even wider. The sight of it was strangely satisfying, a warmth blooming in my chest despite myself.

Then, mouth still half-full, he asked, “So… what did you think? You like it?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting a smile. “It’s not bad.”