Page 53 of Fool Me

“You okay?” His voice cracks with concern, and I hear him starting to descend toward me.

“Yeah, just a little scratch,” I call back, trying to sound like it’s no big deal, but the throbbing in my head tells me otherwise as I focus on keeping him safe.

Atlas reaches the ground and I feel his eyes on me, assessing the cut on my forehead. His face is tight with worry, creating a deep crease in his forehead. “This is not a little scratch.”

I nod, wiping the blood off again. Crimson streaks the back of my hand. “It’s not that bad.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. He gently cups my face, his thumb brushing over the spot where the rock hit. “Harlowe . . .” He trails off, still unsure. “You need to get that looked at. It’s deep.” He fights to pull his shirt free from where it’s trapped under his harness and over his head, pressing the fabric to my brow. If I wasn’t dizzy before, I am now.

I take a deep breath and try to shake off the heat rising up my body, but it’s hard to ignore how the world feels slightly off-kilter. “I think I need to . . .”

Before I can finish the thought, Atlas eases me to the ground.

“Let’s pack up,” he says, voice soft but firm, his eyes flicking back to mine. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

“Yeah, all right,” I relent, my stomach lurching. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Don’t move. And keep this on your cut.” His gaze lingers on me, making sure I’m steady before turning to grab my pack. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“What makes you so sure I have one?” My attempts to sound playful are foiled by the pain in my voice.

He gives me a blank stare, unzipping the small outside pocket where I keep it for easy access.

He spins back to me, his lips pressed into a thin line. Fingers gently wrap around my wrist as he pulls the wrecked shirt from my face.

To his credit, he keeps his expression neutral as his finger prods the skin around my cut.

He presses into a painful spot and a whine slips out before I can stop it.

Remorse flashes across his features. “Sorry. This should get stitches.”

“Butterfly it and take me home, Doc.”

“Harlowe.” He searches my face for a way to convince me.

“Butterfly,” I assert.

“It’s going to leave a scar.”

“It’ll just be one of many,” I muse.

Atlas’s frown deepens. “I don’t like that this one came from me.”

I lift my hands to his face, tilting his head down until he’s forced to look away from the cut he’s studying like it’s personally offended him. “This was an accident—not at all your fault. And, of all my scars, this one hurts the least because it comes with memories of a day well spent with someone I care about.”

Because I do care about Atlas. And I hope, when this is all over and we go our separate ways, him flourishing at his practice and rebuilding the time he’s lost with his parents, we can stay friends. It won’t be the same, but it’ll be something.

He nods his understanding, but I sense that’s just an attempt to get me to let him patch me up. With a gentle touch, he cleans the gash, grimacing when I blink away the pain. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Clover.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Clover?”

“Yeah,” I say, glad to have a distraction as he holds the wound together and smoothes the bandage over the gash.

“Because it was luck that you came into my life when you did.”

I look up at him, head tilting as the pain ebbs.

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