“That’s not—”
“What is it, then?” She leans forward, eyes flashing with annoyance. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re being completely unreasonable about something that should take five minutes.”
I clench my jaw, unable to explain that the problem isn’t her help—it’s how her touch is affecting me in ways I can’t control.
“I don’t like being fussed over.”
“Fussed over?” She lets out a short laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize basic medical care qualified as fussing. Next time, I’ll just let you bleed out like a proper tough guy.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?” She gapes at me. “You’re the one acting like my touching your back is going to kill you! I’ve seen children handle getting bandaged better than you.”
Heat flares in my chest at the com
