Page 46 of When Love Found Us
Not when she finds her footing. Not when she exhales, slow and measured. Not even when I should, I just stay, maybe a second too long.
Long enough to notice the way her breath catches. The way her grip lingers, hesitant but there.
Enjoying it or testing a boundary I don’t quite understand. Maybe both.
Move, idiot, I order myself. That’s when I finally release her and grab a fresh toothbrush from the cabinet, rip it from the packaging, and press it into her hand. “Here.”
She blinks, surprised, then huffs out something that could almost be a laugh. “Are you always this prepared?”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re not the first sick person I’ve taken care of.”
Her brows lift. “No?”
I shake my head. “You’re the easiest patient I’ve had so far.”
She snorts, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s a low bar, Timberbridge.”
I smirk. “And yet, you still haven’t passed out on me.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Just exhaustion and something else that I choose to ignore.
Once she’s done cleaning herself, I gesture toward the door. “Come on.”
She hesitates for a second, like she’s debating whether she should follow me or just collapse on the bathroom floor. Then, with a sigh, she steps forward.
I lead her to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, set it in front of her, then lean against the counter.
“Drink.”
She picks it up but doesn’t take a sip. Instead, she studies it, fingers tracing over the condensation. Then she looks at me.
“What?” I ask.
An almost-there smile tugs at her lips. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
I scoff. “At what? Taking care of people?”
She nods, voice quieter now. “Yeah.”
I shrug, reaching out and brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You get used to it.”
She studies me. There’s something unreadable in her expression.
Then, after a long moment, she asks, “Who took care of you?”
The question lands somewhere deep, hitting a place I don’t usually let people go.
I could lie.
Tell her it doesn’t matter.
But instead, I just shake my head. “No one and it’s totally fine.”
She doesn’t look away. Thankfully, she doesn’t say she’s sorry for whatever fucked up childhood I had. Nor does she try to fill the silence with something that won’t mean anything.
She just nods. Like maybe she understands. Like maybe she’s lived it too.
I don’t know what pushes me to take her into my arms. Thank fuck she lets me hold her there, her body tense at first, and then something shifts. She exhales, just barely, and it’s enough. Enough to tell me she’s letting herself lean—just for a second.
