He wants me to be his... nurse?
There's something suggestive in Cruz's delivery that makes me feel all hot and bothered. My mouth goes dry, and my voice comes out low and scratchy when I respond, "Do you need my help right... now?"
I'm confused, though.
Didn't Ms. Devlin just bandage him up?
Does he need to change them already?
"Well, I wanted to jump in the shower first. I feel kinda gross after, you know, everything that happened today," Cruz replies.
Everything—as in his fight with Brody.
He asks, "I was hoping you could help redo my bandages afterwards?"
Ah, now, that makes more sense.
I nod readily. "Sure, whatever you need."
"I'll be quick. Five minutes tops. Why don't you go wait in my room? The first aid kit is already in there."
"Gotcha."
Cruz disappears into the bathroom.
I head toward his bedroom.
His door is already slightly ajar. I push it open with ease. I make my way inside, and I realize that this is the first time Cruz has invited me to his bat cave. Immediately, I start snooping around as curiosity gets the better of me. I've been in his room before, but I never got a chance to take a good look around.
His walls are an identical shade of off-white as the walls in my room, and his floors are also the same dark-stained hardwood that's found throughout the rest of the house. I see a walk-in closet, a built-in bookshelf, a small desk and chair in the corner, and a full-sized bed by the window.
As I continue to inspect Cruz's room, I can't help but compare his personal space to mine. My room isn't dirty, per se, I keep it reasonably clean—washing my sheets and vacuuming the floor regularly—but I'm a slave to clutter. I never throw anything away that can be reused. A byproduct of growing up poor, probably. I also leave my shit everywhere—makeup, clothes, more makeup, more clothes—so my room looks pretty messy even though I know where to find everything. I tell myself that it's an organized chaos.
Overall, Cruz's room appears way neater and tidier than mine. There are no piles of laundry or clutter anywhere. He's definitely not a hoarder like me. Even his bed is made up. Plain gray sheets with matching gray pillows and a matching gray duvet cover are arranged perfectly on his mattress like a magazine spread.
What a weirdo.
What kind of teenager has the motivation to make his bed every morning?
I roll my eyes at him even though he's not even here to see me do it.
A poster of the soccer player, Cristiano Ronaldo, hangs on one of his walls. It's the only picture hanging in his room. I notice that, much like the rest of their house, there aren't any photos of Cruz or his dad anywhere. I don't see any pictures of his mom, either.
I wonder if he'll ever tell me what happened to her?
My attention snaps to the bookshelf beside his desk. Dozens of paperbacks and hard covers line the shelves. Although, there are noticeably more soccer trophies and plaques displayed on the shelves than actual books.
I tiptoe closer to inspect the books.
Hmm.
What does a guy like Cruz actually read?
Hell, I didn't even know that he liked to read!
I scan through a few titles with interest.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.
Night by Elie Wiesel.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.
Damn, props to this guy. Cruz and I are clearly two very different types of people. I probably wouldn't touch any of these books unless my English teacher forced them on me. I'm ashamed to admit. I'd pick a smutty Wattpad story over a literary classic any day of the week!
I spend a few more minutes wandering around his room. I don't go into his closet, though. I don't poke through his desk drawers, either. I respect his privacy. Sadly, there's only so much snooping I can do just by walking around, and my efforts turn out to be boring and uneventful.
Feeling only a tad disappointed, I plop onto the edge of Cruz's bed. I start scrolling through my phone as I wait for him to come back.
A minute later, I hear footsteps padding towards the room. I glance up from my phone. Cruz soon reappears in the doorway.
Our gazes are drawn together, locking in midair.
We say at the same time, "Hey."
I blush a little.
Cruz smiles faintly.
His black hair is still damp from his shower. Cruz has changed from the T-shirt and jeans he wore to school into a muscle tee and joggers. Scrapes and bruises are visible all over his face and body.
Guilt stabs at me again.
Anxiously, I ask, "Should we, um, get started?"
He holds me gaze for a second longer before replying, "Sure."
Cruz goes into his walk-in closet and re-emerges with a fully decked out first aid kit. He sets it down on the bed and takes a seat beside me. The mattress sinks under his weight. We're sitting so close together that I can actually smell his cologne.
God, he smells good. All woodsy and fresh and... sexy. My face grows warmer than it should.
I feel nervous and tingly but, like, in a good way?
I'm relieved when Cruz pops open the first aid kit. It's starting to get way too toasty for me in Cruz's bedroom, and I need a distraction from all his hotness. Cruz begins demonstrating how to disinfect his scratches and scrapes. He teaches me how to cut tape for gauze and how to wrap the bandage around his knuckles. Cruz definitely knows his way around a first aid kit. It seems like soccer might be a lot more violent than I expected. Cruz must get injured all the time if he knows this much about basic first aid.
I listen to him carefully and try to execute each task exactly as he describes it to me. I shift towards him and get to work, closing the gap between us on the bed. We're sitting close enough now for me to count each individual lash around his eyes.
Damn, his eyes are so green, and his lashes are so long and full. I know I'm getting distracted again, but it's so unfair for a guy to have such pretty lashes. I'm lowkey jelly.
As my thoughts continue to swerve in inappropriate directions, I try to get a grip on my stupid, infatuated brain.
I rail silently at myself: Focus, bitch, and stop mooning over this mofo's beautiful green eyes!
I have a job to do. I take a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand.
Cruz barely winces each time I disinfect a new wound, but I still make every effort to keep my touch light and gentle. I don't want to hurt him any more than necessary. I can feel Cruz's gaze weighing on my every move. He's watching me so intently, but he doesn't correct me or complain about anything. I assume I'm doing okay. It's kind of nerve-wracking. I don't stop, though. It takes me a while, but I make sure to clean every cut and scrape on Cruz's body very thoroughly and bandage up each of his more serious abrasions with plenty of TLC.
When I'm finally satisfied with my handiwork, I glance at Cruz with a questioning gaze. "Is this okay?"
He gives me a nod of approval. "You did great. Thank you."
I smile with relief. "Thank God! I was worried about messing something up."
Cruz laughs softly. "Don't worry, you didn't mess anything up."
I tap lightly on his bandage and tease, "Oh, good. I was gonna offer to kiss it to make it better if I actually fucked up!"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back.
Yikes.
That line sounded way less flirty and cringy in my mind than when I actually said it aloud.
Still, feeling much more at ease, I shuffle away from Cruz and start packing all the extra tape, bandages, and alcohol wipes back inside the first aid kit box.
I get ready to go. "Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"
Before I can leave, though, he scoots towards me on the bed and says, "Wait."
"What?"
"I think you missed a spot."
Did I miss a spot?
Oh, shoot.
I frown and start looking around for it. "Where?"
He points to the bandage around his knuckles with a perfect poker face. "Here."
I'm genuinely perplexed because that shit looks fine to me. "Uh..."
"You didn't kiss it," Cruz insists, "to make it better."
My head snaps up. "Are you being serious? I was joking earlier."
Cruz doesn't look like he's joking when he answers, "I'm being dead serious."
I can't tell if he's messing with me. I'm pretty sure he's messing with me, though.
Right?
I try to laugh it off, "Fuck off, dude. Don't play with me."
He shrugs. "Fine. Don't do it."
"Wait," I find myself asking, "are you really serious about that kiss?"
His eyes drift towards me with a steady, knowing look. "I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't want it. Up to you, though."
My breath catches. Something in the air shifts between us. It feels... magnetic.
It pulls me to him.
My hand seems to move on its own accord. In the back of my mind, I know this is probably a bad idea, but—
I don't care.
Because Cruz is hot.
Because I like Cruz.
Because I think he likes me, too.
I reach over to grasp his bandaged hand, raise it to my lips, and brush the gentlest of kisses over his knuckles.
"There," I whisper, "all better."
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