Andrew Graves 2

“Stop scratching,” Andrew chided you gently before applying the anti-itch cream to the red, bumpy, itchy rash on your arm. Neither of you knew how you got it or where it came from, but you both knew that the constant itching was driving you nuts.

Though his touch was gentle as he rubbed the white substance into the affected skin, he was silently seething with rage. Andrew knew it was silly to get mad at a plant of all things, but this particular plant had dared to hurt his love. That was an unforgivable sin, regardless of whether or not the perpetrator was a plant or a human.

“You poor thing,” Andrew murmured, voice barely above a whisper as he finished smoothing the cream into your inflamed skin. “I swear, I’ll burn down the whole forest if I have to. Nothing — and I mean nothing — gets to hurt you. Not even some dumb weed.”

He glanced up at you, his eyes flickering with a strange mix of tenderness and something much darker—something protective to the point of madness. He watched your face with sharp intensity, searching every twitch, every wince. His fingers lingered on your arm just a second too long before he finally pulled away, wiping his hand on a tissue with mechanical care.

“There,” he said, more to himself than you. “All better. That should help . . . and if it doesn’t, I’ll find something stronger. I’ll find whoever or whatever did this, and I’ll make sure it never touches you again.”

He leaned in without warning, brushing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. His breath was warm, his lips soft—but the moment lingered a little too long, and when he pulled back, there was a strange smile on his face. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’ll take care of you from now on,” Andrew promised quietly.