Page 33 of Fool Moon First Aid

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a nagging reminder of the world beyond these walls, but I ignore it. Whoever it is, whatever they want, it will have to wait. My gaze wanders, avoiding Tyler’s tense shoulders and the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The hurt I’ve inflicted hangs between us, an unspoken chasm that I’m not sure how to bridge.

I just met them, yet the sight of their pain is unexpectedly piercing. All I want is to ease it and soothe the wounds I inadvertently inflicted, but first, I need a moment to gather the shards of my own scattered emotions and piece them back together or hide them away.

I can no longer tell what’s real and what’s not. I wonder if my feelings are just because of our connection or if they’re truly mine. As my phone starts its insistent buzzing again, a wave of irritation washes over me, but I dismiss it with a flick of my wrist.

As we approach the steps, Tyler looks back with a sparkle in his eyes, showing his unique charm. He asks, “Do you need to get that?”

I shake my head, forcing a light tone, despite feeling anything but light inside. “Let’s get me settled first, then I’ll call whoever it is back.” The steps in front of us aren’t too steep but still challenging, given the house’s age. I take a deep breath, hold my crutches tightly, and start climbing, step by step.

My world narrows down to the persistent throb in my ankle and ribs, the pain spreading its tendrils through my body. Exhaustion hangs over me like a heavy cloak, dragging me down.

Probably pushed myself too hard, I silently chide myself, the inner critique wrapped in a layer of self-compassion.

At the top, Tyler pops out from the nearest room, his smile full of warmth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not the grandest guest room, but it is cozy,” he says, his voice carrying that lovable, whimsical note. He gestures to the door across the hall. “Bathroom’s here. Towels are at your disposal. Just a heads-up—hot water’s a twelve-minute luxury.”

Before I fully register the room’s quaint details—the soft, inviting hues and the gentle light filtering through the curtains—he guides me to a chair in the corner. I practically collapse onto it, as everything that happened today catches up to me.

“I know you didn’t have much time to grab your stuff,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“None.” I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the day’s chaos settle around me. “I didn’t even grab a phone charger.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says swiftly, pointing to the end table, where a lamp casts a warm glow over a charging dock. “The drawers,” he continues cautiously, a blush creeping into his cheeks, “are full of clothes.”

I squint at him, then let my gaze drift to the chest of drawers across the room, its wood worn and scratched. “Women’s clothing?” I ask, unable to hide the jealousy simmering in my stomach. Is that reaction all me? Or the bond?

“Ah, w-well, yes,” he stammers, clearing his throat as he awkwardly shuffles back. “We’ve had visitors, and sometimes, they leave things behind.”

Is he serious right now?

A ripple of irritation courses through me. “So you’re saying those drawers are full of clothing from past flings?” My words are pointed, and I finally get my face under control so he can’t tell I’m jealous. Or so I hope.

He freezes, his eyes wide, the earlier whimsy now replaced with a flicker of surprise. “You know, I could just grab one of my shirts for you to sleep in, and tomorrow, I can get a change of clothes from your place.”

“That sounds like a plan,” I respond, the irritation dissipating as quickly as it emerged, replaced by an unfamiliar but not unwelcome itch under my skin.

Tyler tilts his head, inhales slowly, and graces me with a devious smirk I’m learning to associate with him. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and with that, he spins on his heel and vanishes from the room, leaving a trail of bemused energy in his wake.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Rubbing my temples, I try to chase away the stubborn headache that’s persistently building behind my eyes. My phone starts its insistent buzzing again, but I dismiss it, choosing instead to take in the room that somehow mirrors the moodiness swirling inside me. It isn’t huge, but the room exudes a charm that feels more inviting than the cramped living room of my apartment.

The walls, painted a deep gray that pretends to be black, draw me in. One wall boasts a fancy board, its dark hue halting three-quarters of the way up, giving way to wallpaper bathed in the same shadowy tone. It’s adorned with oversized pink roses that seem to bloom defiantly from the gloom, injecting a touch of whimsy into the room’s dark color scheme.

The dark walls wrap around me, and I sink deeper into the plush black velvet of the high-backed chair. The chair hugs me in all the right places, and I can easily see myself sitting here with a hot chocolate and a smutty novel.

My gaze settles on the bed. Its small headboard, upholstered in pink fabric, subtly echoes the roses on the wall, whispering tales of hidden softness amid the room’s brooding tones. A true black comforter lies atop it, with teasing glimpses of pink sheets beneath that I’d bet my last nickel feels amazing on freshly shaved legs. The bed, a substantial presence in the room, is crowned with a myriad of pillows that beckon with a siren’s call, promising a night full of naughty dream.

About three sexy wolves.

The matching wooden bench at its foot stands as a silent sentinel, aligning perfectly with the door, its dark wood reflecting the faint light. Across a narrow space, a dresser stands in solidarity with the end table. A television, mounted to the wall, offers an escape, but my focus drifts to the slightly open door of a small walk-in closet.

As I soak in the room’s ambiance, Tyler bursts back in, his energy almost restored to its usual buzz, brushing against my senses like a refreshing breeze. “Okay, I got sweats from each of us,” he declares, flinging three pairs onto the bed with a flourish, followed by a T-shirt, before nodding with approval and turning to face me. “Listen,” he starts, but I interrupt, the words I’ve been holding back for the last half hour demanding their release.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I’m not sorry for craving space, but I regret the shadow of hurt that lingers in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Tyler offers a sad yet understanding smile, leaning against the doorframe and finally meeting my gaze, then he shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay, Ava. You didn’t ask for this, and it’s not fair for us to spring it on you,” he says.

“I said the words,” I reply, my thoughts momentarily darting to Eloise. Payback is a bitch. As soon as Tyler gives me space, I know exactly whom I’m going to call.

---