Nothing Personal

02. patching wounds

HEAT SPILLED INTO the vacant hallway, accompanied by savory baking smells that made Willow's stomach clench painfully in unaccustomed hunger. Isaac stepped into view, curls askew, wearing sweatpants low on his hips and nothing else.

Willow's throat went dry at the hard planes of muscle tapering down his torso and the maze of veins disappearing beneath his pants. He stepped aside to allow her entrance. Her eyes swept the space automatically before relaxing incrementally. Isaac's luxurious single dorm was just as she remembered it three nights ago.

Willow took in the cozy chaos of Isaac's quarters—overflowing bookshelves and autographed motorsport posters littering every surface. A lingering scent of whiskey and tobacco clung to the room, an intoxicating mix that relaxed Willow's shoulders.

Her eyes followed Isaac as he walked over to his kitchen and checked on his fresh-baked oatmeal cookies cooling on the stovetop. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I had no idea you baked," she commented, closing the distance between them. Her hands rested casually on her hips as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"Hope you like oatmeal raisin," he called over his shoulder, depositing a steaming mug of something aromatic beside her. "I heard they're your favorites."

Willow blinked, twisting to observe him curiously. It unnerved her—the tiny details Isaac seemed to pick up without trying when they spoke in stolen moments like this, how he paid such close attention beneath his insouciant veneer.

"You heard wrong," she replied. Isaac held out the plate, offering his cookie to Willow.

Willow hesitated, her gaze flickering between Isaac and the cookie. Her therapist's voice was all that echoed in the back of her mind. She was screaming at Willow, leaving her wary of accepting even this small gesture of kindness.

With a tentative smile, Willow reached out, her fingers brushing against the edge of the still-warm cookie. She met Isaac's gaze, searching for any hint of deception or malice. Finding none, she took the offered treat. Taking a bite, Willow was surprised by the nutty sweetness on her tongue, grounding her in the present. "But these are good."

She swallowed the buttery product. An involuntary sound of approval slipped from her throat, causing Isaac to chuckle. "Take as much as you need," Isaac grinned, offering Willow the plate.

He leaned against the counter and removed his glasses. Isaac pulled a cigarette from the box stashed on the corner and clicked his lighter, cupping the fragile flame until the end burned bright. He took a drag, smoke wisping between them.

Isaac's silver gaze assessed Willow intently from head to toe through a haze of smoke, lingering on her legs before meeting her eyes in silent question, kindling the now-familiar flutter in her stomach. He took a final drag on the cigarette before extinguishing the burning end. He then turned towards Willow, his eyes searching her face. "You're limping."

Willow bit the final piece of her cookie, her eyebrows furrowing. "It's just a scratch, but I need your patchwork skills again."

"Sit," Isaac mumbled, gesturing to his couch. Willow sank into the seat slowly, her muscles relaxing into the plush embrace. Isaac left and returned quickly with a medical kit. He set it beside Willow and bent one long leg to kneel at Willow's feet.

"May I take a look, sunshine?" he asked softly, calloused fingertips brushing her ankle in a feather-light caress. Willow shivered, hardly from cold, and nodded. Isaac gently eased her heels from her shoes and rolled down her sock to reveal an angry abrasion marring her skin.

"It's nothing serious," she muttered, though Isaac didn't quite buy it. He examines the jagged edges rimmed with dried blood. His touch remained hesitant yet tender as he cleaned and disinfected the wound, murmuring soft nothings meant to soothe. Willow watched transfixed, observing his scarred fingers at work.