“Shit.”
“Careful!” Abhimaan barks, spinning around. He’s beside me in seconds, his phone already forgotten, eyes narrowed with something between anger and concern.
I brace my hand on the ground and push myself upright. “I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding,” he says, his voice low and taut. Not panicked. Controlled. But tight enough to snap.
“It’s just a scratch,” I mumble, cradling my palm. Blood’s already seeping out, bright and quick. There’s dust clinging to it, which probably isn’t ideal. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out weaker than I intended.
Abhimaan doesn’t laugh. Of course, he doesn’t. He just mutters something under his breath and gestures for someone nearby. Before I can fully grasp what’s happening, he’s guiding me toward one of the temporary cabins they use as on-site offices. His hand is firm at my back, not pushing, not gentle either—just there. A shiver runs down my spine, and I pray to God that he doesn't notice or at least doesn't think it's because of him because it is.
“I can walk,” I say, even though I’m a little limpy.
“You almost impaled yourself on a goddamn steel rod,” he says coolly. “Spare me the brave face.”
I want to argue, but honestly, it hurts, and also—his hand is still on my back. Warm. Solid. And very distracting.
Inside the cabin, he gestures to the chair, and I sit, watching as he opens a supply drawer like he’s done it a thousand times before. He pulls out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and gauze.
“You carry first aid in construction offices?” I mutter, trying for lightness.
He glances at me. “Try building a site without it. OSH would skin me alive.”
I blink. That… was almost a joke. A dry one, sure, but still.
He kneels in front of me. And I freeze.
I expect him to hand me the supplies. Maybe call someone else to help. But no—he gently takes my wrist, turns my palm upward, and starts cleaning the wound.
The sting is sharp, but I barely feel it. Not really. Not over the weird rush of heat flooding my chest.
His fingers are so careful. So efficient. Surprisingly, they are not cold or clinical. He holds my hand steady while he cleans the dust and blood away, then wraps the gauze around it slowly, like the wound might protest if he goes too fast.
“You need to be more careful,” he says, voice low.
There’s something in his tone I don’t know how to place. It’s not just annoyance.
Concern? My throat tightens unexpectedly.
I clear it and glance away. “Don’t treat me like a child,” I say. It comes out sharper than I mean it to, mostly because I’m flustered and very aware that he’s still holding my hand.
“Then stop behaving like one,” he replies without missing a beat.
I huff. “It's just one time.”
“You fall once, you fall again.”
“You micromanage once, you never stop.”
That earns me a raised eyebrow, but he finishes tying the bandage without saying anything more. When he finally lets go of my hand, it feels… strange. Like I’m missing something.
I flex my fingers. “Thanks,” I say, tone casual, like my heart isn’t doing jumping jacks. “But next time, just toss the bandage at me and call it a day.”
He stands slowly. “Next time, try not giving me a heart attack at a construction site.”
“You? A heart?” I grin, pushing to my feet. “Now that’s the real plot twist.”
He doesn’t smile. Not really. But his eyes flicker with something I almost miss.
