“Here.” He hands it to me. “Use this. It’s clean. I promise.”
I recognize the soft cotton fabric immediately. It’s Dax’s favorite shirt. Well…one of his three favorite shirts. He got them in a three-pack two years ago at a Boxing Day sale at The Bay. They feel like butter, have the perfect level of V （not too much chest）， and are the right length to fit his long torso yet slim enough to pull tight in all the right places. He loves those shirts far more than any human should love a piece of clothing.
He wore the first of the three so often that it had holes and was so thin you could see his nipples. His mother got so fed up with him wearing it that when she came to visit, she offered to do his laundry and had an “accident” with the bleach （or so Dax tells the story）。 Shirt number two suffered a run-in with a bratwurst at a Jays game. No bleach could stand up to the bright-yellow mustard stain. Dax cried when he threw it out.
If the same things happened in this timeline, the shirt in my hands is the last one. Dax’s final perfect shirt, and he’s giving it to me.
“You’re really bleeding.” He takes the shirt from my stunned hands and presses it to my chin before I can tell him I’m not worth the sacrifice.
It stings. Oh fuck, it stings. But the tears in my eyes are not ones of pain.
“You didn’t even hesitate.” I fight back a swelling lump of gratitude in my throat.
His other hand cups the back of my head, his fingers checking for bumps. “Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”
I shake my head. “Just home to an ice pack and a Band-Aid and maybe a shot of tequila, but that’s more to soothe the ego bruise.”
He smiles. “That sounds like a solid plan. Think you can stand?”
I wait until my heart steadies to a pace where it feels like it’s not going to give out at any moment, then let him help me to my feet.
He gathers the can of tomatoes, the bruise-free bananas, and the rest of the scattered groceries into my bags. When he’s done, he brushes a few stray hairs from my forehead and once again repeats the chin lift and assesses.
I get the emerald stare. It’s all mine. And I soak it up like a neglected house plant.
Yes. Fine. He’s probably checking to make sure my pupils are still dilating, but staring into his eyes feels like home.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” His voice is so calm and steady. It’s everything I need right now. But all at once, the weight of the day hits me like a sucker punch, and my lower lip begins to tremble. I can feel tears brimming my eyes at a rate too fast for me to blink away.
His hand finds my shoulder and squeezes, and before he can pull away, I melt into him, pressing my head to his chest, not caring whether he thinks it’s weird or not.
He smells the same. Exactly like my Dax. Irish Spring soap. The faintest hint of cologne. And when I begin to worry that I’ve overstepped his gesture of chivalry, his arms wrap around me, and he holds me close, firm, yet light enough that I know it’s my call on how long our embrace lasts.
And as odd as it is—the bleeding, the oat milk and eggs puddling at my feet—I need this. To be held. To feel safe. To know that Dax will always have my back when my world implodes. So I stay, tucked into the little nook between his arm and his chest, greedily breathing him in. Bathing in this feeling I’ve been missing.
“You’re a good guy, Daxon McGuire.” My voice is muffled against his chest. And as I pull away to look at him, his arms stay wrapped around me, and it makes me think.
I’m very much in the proximity of his mouth. It’s possible that if I pressed up onto my toes, my lips could easily meet his. Aunt Livi was pretty adamant about performing the cleanse in the proper order, but would it be so terrible if I kissed him now and banked it for later? Instead of waiting for the moon to be right to make my wish and my chicken dinner sacrifice?
“You look like you’re thinking pretty hard about something.” Dax lets go of my shoulders, though his hands pause on either side of me as if he’s half expecting I’ll tip over.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just happy I didn’t bruise my bananas.”
“Wouldn’t want to be forced to make premature banana bread.”
He’s making fun of me.
But his smile is playful, that is, until he removes his perfect shirt from my face and gives my cut another once-over.
“The bleeding has slowed but not stopped. It’s more of a scrape than a cut, so I don’t think you need stitches.” His eyes meet mine. “Do you have any Band-Aids at home?”