“Wait.” The word came out firmer.
Awareness crawled up his neck as he lifted a hand, half in apology. He should leave. Mumble something about grabbing some feed and get the hell out of there before he made this any more awkward than it already was.
But she was already stepping toward him, dusting her palms down her jeans, and the way she looked at him—like he wasn’t some broken-down soldier hiding in the shadows but someone worth approaching—kept his feet planted to the spot.
“How’s your shoulder?”
He straightened instinctively, muscle memory from years of standing at attention. “Fine.”
Her brow arched in that way she had that cut through every one of his defenses. It was the same look she’d given him last night when he tried to brush off the knife wound.
The expression that said she saw right through him.
“Let me see.”
“Not necessary.” The words came out rougher than he intended, but the thought of her hands on him again, gentle and clinical while his body betrayed him with every touch, was more than he could handle.
“Decker…” She gave a little smile, the kind that melted stubbornness like butter in the summer sun. “I stapled you back together last night. Humor me.”
He blew out a breath and tugged at the hem of his shirt. She had a point—she’d already seen the damage, already touched the broken parts of him with those careful fingers.
“You could have been a drill sergeant. You don’t let anything slide, do you?”
“Nope.” Her smile widened, and Christ, when she looked at him like that, he’d probably agree to anything.
With one smooth motion, he dragged the fabric over his head. The cool air raised goose bumps along his arms, but Willow didn’t hesitate. She stepped in, fingers at the bandage, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“I’d better wash my hands first.” She walked over to the sink along one wall and scrubbed her hands, then used the hand sanitizer too.
Even though he tried not to, he watched her every move, admiring the way she made even mundane tasks look graceful.
She stepped up to him again and met his stare for a beat before asking him to turn around so she could look at his shoulder.
“This might sting.” She pulled the tape back with care. “I’m sorry.”
The apology was unnecessary—hell, he’d stitched his own arm in the field once following a skirmish.
But her touch left fire across his skin for other reasons.
Decker bit down on the inside of his cheek, refusing to utter a sound and make her think she hurt him.
Anything to keep tears out of her beautiful eyes.
She was so careful, so gentle, treating his battered body like it was something precious instead of the war-torn mess it really was.
“Not too bad.” Her fingers ghosted inches from the stapled wound, feather-light. “You’ll heal well.”
He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to lean into her hand, to close his eyes and pretend this moment could stretch on forever. And that was dangerous thinking. Willow was kindness personified…but kindness wasn’t love, and he’d be a fool to confuse the two.
She pressed the bandage over his skin once more but didn’t move away.
The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words and the soft rustle of horses shifting in their stalls.
He turned around and found himself memorizing the way the gray light caught the threads in her dark hair, turning them to burnished bronze, and the way her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks.
She held his stare for one heartbeat, then two.
Footsteps broke the spell.
