“Keep talking.”
So she did. Told him about cookies shaped like stars and trees. About staying up late on Christmas Eve, listening for sounds on the roof even though she’d long stopped believing. About the year her father lost his job, and they’d made presents from things they already owned… her mother had given her a necklace that had been her grandmother’s, and even at fourteen, Juni had understood the importance of that gift.
His hands never paused. He cleaned away dirt and blood gently, before the antiseptic sting, and he put soft gauze over the wounds. By the time he finished with her knees, she’d talked herself hoarse and her legs were neatly bandaged.
“Done.” He stood, started to step back.
“No.” She grabbed his arm. “Your turn.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“It’s nothing?—”
“Goraath.” She slid off the counter, legs shaky but holding. “You got hurt protecting me. The least I can do is return the favor. Shirt off. Now.”
His eyes locked on hers and heat flared between them, sudden and fierce. For a moment she thought he’d refuse, just walk away like he had after the kiss. Then his hands moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one motion.
Oh.
Oh. Holy shit.
She’d seen him shirtless yesterday morning, but that was across a room, in shadow. And last night, in the darkness of night and under the light of the moon. But this was different. Morning light painted every ridge of muscle, every scar. And there were so many scars. That massive one from shoulder to ribs she’d noticed before. The burn marks across his lower back. But also dozens of smaller ones—thin white lines, puckered circles, a jagged tear along his bicep that must have almost taken his arm off.
And now there were three new wounds. The worst was on his shoulder blade, a hoof-shaped bruise already purple-black with split skin at the center. There was another across his ribs, swelling visible. The third was lower on his back, just above his hip.
“Sit.” She pointed at the chair.
He sat and the wooden chair creaked under his weight.
She’d watched him, so she knew where everything was. Clean cloths, antiseptic, gauze. Her hands shook as she wet the cloth. Not from fear or shock but from being so close to him. From being trusted to touch him, to care for him when he obviously wasn’t used to it.
She started with the wound on his shoulder blade, working inward. He didn’t make a sound, but she felt his muscles lock under her fingers.
“My turn to ask questions.” Her voice was steadier than her hands. “How long have you lived here?”
“All my life.”
She moved to the wound on his ribs. This one was messier, the bruising spread across a hand’s width of skin. She had to lean close to see properly, her breath ghosting across his back. He shivered.
“Sorry. Cold?”
“No.”
She kept working, and tried to ignore the way his skin felt under her fingers. Warm. Surprisingly soft over all that muscle. He smelled like earth and sweat and something else, something that made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the morning’s terror.
“Why did you ask? About Christmas?”
There was another pause. Longer.
“You were right. Yesterday. In town.” His voice was low, careful. “You’re trying to adapt. I should... try to understand.”
Her hands stilled on his ribs.
“Thank you.”
He grunted. The sound almost covered the sharp inhale when she pressed too hard on the bruise.
