He took the small jar from her, his fingers brushing hers for a brief, electric moment. His gruff, commanding tone was back, a flimsy shield for the embarrassment still burning on his ears. "Give me the ointment."
He opened the lid. The sharp, clean scent of camphor and healing herbs cut through the soft lavender smell of the room. He scooped a small, pale-green dollop onto his fingertip, his movements surprisingly hesitant for a man who seemed to do everything with such abrasive confidence.
Marissa understood. She sat very still on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap. She obediently lowered her head and tilted her neck, exposing the thin, red graze.
The simple, necessary action brought them impossibly close.
