Sol was standing just outside the open door with a towel wrapped around his waist, the shorts he still hadn't put on dangling from one finger.
"No shorts. No service," Farron said, ignoring the smirk building on his lips.
He let the towel fall from his hips and held it out to her almost like a dare, his gaze seeming to dance over her face. She reached for the towel, and his fingers brushed hers, the small contact making her breath hitch involuntarily. The smirk he'd been wearing faded and the next thing she knew he was holding her hand, pressing it against his marble-like chest, his skin warm, the thud of his heartbeat steady. Her gaze lifted to his full and slightly parted lips. That kiss sprang to her mind, the one prompted by the desperation she'd heard in his voice when he'd told her to leave him alone. He wasn't desperate now.
Farron wrested her hand from his and stepped back, studying his face, not sure how to proceed considering what he'd told her about his condition. She wasn't sure she believed him. "Do you want some help?"
That smile again. He held the shorts out to her. "If you're offering."
"That's not what I meant. Do want help getting to the table?"
"I can manage," he said.
By the time she'd filled his bowl, he'd felt his way to one of the chairs at the dining table. He'd put the shorts on, and she couldn't help notice he'd left the velcro fly unfastened at the top. They fit him a bit snug, but Levi's would have fallen right off his hips.
Sol didn't share Levi's bulk, but the small cottage felt even smaller with him in it. She'd been able to handle Sol flat on his back and semi-conscious. But this Sol? This wide-awake, hand-holding with his fly half undone Sol was a different beast entirely. She couldn't breathe around this Sol and her skin felt too tight and hot.
She set the meager bowl of soup in front of him along with a spoon. She wished she'd learned to cook. She'd like to have been able to offer him something homemade and not out of a can. Levi had done a good job of taking care of her and Sammy, but none of them cooked much.
"You're not eating?" he asked, his fingers scratching over the table's wooden surface for the spoon.
"No. I ate earlier." She'd much rather sit and watch him eat. Watching him eat was nothing like watching her brothers. He didn't slurp. He didn't shovel the food into his mouth like there was no tomorrow even though he'd said he was starving. Broth dribbled down his chin, and she jumped up to get him a paper towel.
When he took it from her, his fingers once again brushed against hers, and all her senses seemed to hone in on the inadvertent touch, hone in on him. The warmth of his hand, the rich, salty scent coming off his skin. His eyes were definitely green.
She retreated to her chair, her heart pounding, her breath too shallow.
He wiped his chin, and the features of his face softened into an expression that was almost tender. "No one's ever brought me soup before."
"It came from a can."
"Still." He took another bite, blotting his mouth with the paper towel. Then he put the spoon down and picked up the bowl with both hands and raised it to his mouth, downing the contents before placing the empty bowl back on the table.
"I guess if you can hold that down, you can move on to something more substantial." She looked at his empty bowl with regret. She hadn't expected him to be quite so virile. She'd envisioned having to spoon feed him, help him to the water again. Twelve hours ago she'd been holding his head while he vomited, listening to his incoherent ramblings. Now he seemed perfectly capable, and she couldn't deny she was a little disappointed.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze scanning the room as though he were trying to work out a puzzle, something curious in his expression. He tucked the thick curtain of his hair behind one ear, displaying a high, sharp cheekbone, further exposing his mouth. She couldn't quit staring at it, the fullness of it, the deep slightly gravelly voice that came out of it stealing up her spine like a light touch.
"Thank you," he said, the words stumbling over his lips. Something in his blind eyes shifted, and they seemed to turn darker still. "What you did when you found me. Taking care of me when I was out of it."
She opened her mouth, her mind spinning with questions she was sure he wouldn't answer. Caris had implied that he'd blown himself up on purpose, that he'd wanted to die. Farron wasn't sure she believed it. She didn't want to believe it.
"You don't have to thank me, but are you sure you don't need to go see a doctor?"
"I'm sure," he said, and as if to prove something to her he picked up his bowl and carried it to the sink. When he turned back around he stayed where he was, leaning his hips against the counter. "It's not total."
"What's not total?"
"The blindness. I can see something. I can see—" He was looking at her again, seeming to survey her from across the table. She squirmed in her seat, willing her heartbeat to slow. Even blind, Sol's gaze had her blood running thick and hot.
"You can see what?"
He opened his mouth on an inhale then seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say. He shrugged. "Shapes. Shadows. I can feel things."
"That's good," she said, not sure she understood. "Maybe that means it's not permanent."
"Maybe." His eyes scanned the compact living room behind her as though he were taking inventory. "A couch," he recited. "A chair. Is that it?"
"Yeah. Kind of sparse. No TV."
His lips tilted on a half-smile. "Wouldn't do me any good."
"Will you be all right by yourself?" she asked, pushing to her feet. She hadn't meant to stay so long, and now that she knew what he was dealing with she felt bad about leaving, but she was already running late.
"You're leaving?" His sharp gaze was on her again, and an edginess had crept into his tone.
"I need to get home," she said apologetically. "I have to get ready."
"Ready for what?" His brows pinched in disapproval, and his whole body tensed, the muscles in his chest and arms straining against his skin as though he were in sudden danger.
"Some of us have to work."
"Where do you work?" he asked testily as though he found the idea abhorrent.
"The Thirsty Turtle. It's a restaurant in town. I wait tables and whatever else Sherry, the owner, needs me to do. If I had known.... Are you sure you don't want me to send Levi or Sammy over?"
"No." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I'll be fine."
"Okay." She moved to the still open door, surprised to feel him move behind her.
When he spoke, his voice fell closer than anticipated, his breath skating in her hair. "You'll come back."
It wasn't really a question. It wasn't a request either, more like a statement of indisputable fact. She hurried through the door and into the sunlight before she changed her mind and stayed.
"Yes," she said, jumping off the porch. "I'll come back."
