“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I look up at him again, surprised by the look on his face. His expression isn’t filled with pity, but with understanding and empathy. He grabs the hem of my shirt. “Let me.”
My breath stutters, nervous energy coursing through me. “Chris…”
His voice drops, quiet but rough. “I’ve seen you naked a thousand times.” A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Just let me do this for you.”
I can’t argue. Not when his fingers are dusting along my stomach as he gathers the fabric in his hands, and his eyes are telling me he needs this as much as I do.
I nod, granting him the consent I know he’s waiting for.
He pulls the bloodstained shirt over my head and drops it into a pile beside us. Kneeling before me, he removes my shorts and then my underwear. He doesn’t look at me like a man stripping a woman. Instead, he looks as though he’s unwrapping a fragile gift he doesn’t want to break. When he’s finished with my clothes, he makes quick work of removing his own.
As the last of the fabric covering him falls, he slides his calloused hands down my back, pushing gently to guide me into the shower. He steps in with me, putting us both under the lukewarm stream. The water sprays over us, washing away some of the redness clinging to my skin.It’s not enough.
Chris fills his palm with soap, then with slow, careful movements, starts washing the blood from my hands andarms. He cleans my shoulders and my chest. Then washes it from my hair.
It’s not sensual or intimate in the way that he used to bathe me. It’s quiet and methodical—heartbreakingly gentle. He doesn’t rush, working in silence, washing away every trace of someone else’s death from my skin.
But even through my numbness, I canfeelhim. His hands burn as they glide over every inch of my skin. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of his soap and relishing in his touch. I lean into him, remembering the way he used to touch me. Not like this. Not because he had to. But because hewantedto. He brushes hair from my face, and for a heartbeat, I can almost feel it again—the connection we had before he disappeared from my life.
My chest tightens, realizing this isn’t real. The man standing so close that every breath he takes blows against my forehead isn’t mine. And I hate that I miss the love of my life standing only inches from me.
When he’s done, he turns off the water and grabs a towel from the bag. He wraps it around my shoulders, bringing warmth back into my arms. “Chris…” I shakily exhale as he crouches to dry my legs and feet.
“I want to.” He looks up my body, rubbing the towel along my legs.
When he stands, he pulls a pair of black sweats and a gray T-shirt from the bag before holding them out to me. He helps me into them, his movements slow and sure as he dresses me in his clothes. Once I’m dressed, he pulls on a dry pair of pants himself, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of wet hair behind my ear. His fingers linger for a second, his knuckles dusting along my jaw. Gently, he slips them under my chin and tips my face up toward his. His hazel eyes full of years of regret, he stares down at me, “Leaving… it was never about us.”
I blink, caught off guard.
He swallows hard, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “I left to save you from me.” The silence between us is heavy with things unsaid. Before I can ask what he means—before I can demand to know how that could ever make sense—he steps away and grabs the bag, his walls going right back up.
“Come on,” he insists, voice flat again, pressing his hand to my back. “We should get back.”
I want to scream at him, insist he talk to me. Tell me why, even if the reason will break my heart all over again. But the words stick in my throat. Swallowing them down, I follow him into the pre-dawn light.
When we reach the tent, it’s mostly empty. Jagger and Gunnar are gone, and Damon is crouched near my cot, finishing scrubbing the last dark stain from the floor. He glances up when we enter, his expression grim.
“You’re all clear,” he says. “Gunnar and Jagger went for a ride.” While he talks in code, I know exactly what he means.A long ride into the desert to drop off a body.His gaze flicks to me, softening slightly. “You holding up okay?”
I nod, though I don’t know if it’s true.Or if I’m more shaken over the man who died in my lap or Chris.
Chris drops the bag by his cot and gestures toward it. “Takemy bed,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Get a few more hours of sleep. You need it.”
“What about you? You look exhausted.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor. Or Gunnar’s bed”
As I stare at him, the lines in his face are etched with exhaustion, and the tension is still coiled in his shoulders. “No.”
He arches a brow and shakes his head. “Reese.”
“If I can shower with you,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel, “I’m pretty sure I can share a bed with you.”
He freezes, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue.
