"Thank you."
"For what? Bleeding on your nice floors? Getting the wallpaper ruined?" I'm definitely babbling. "That's going to be impossible to clean. Blood's so hard to get out of wallpaper. We should have painted instead. Paint's easier to clean."
He's still looking at me with that expression, the one that makes my stomach do complicated things.
"I should get that coffee," I say.
"You should."
Neither of us moves.
"Right. Coffee. Going now." I step back, immediately miss his warmth. "Your study?"
"My study."
I flee to the kitchen, arm throbbing, chest doing that burning thing, trying not to think about how he looked at me. Like I was worth killing for. Like I was worth protecting. Like I was his.
The kitchen's been abandoned, breakfast dishes still on the table. Someone cleaned up the body though. Efficient. Theblood's still there, but the body's gone. Probably Ridge. He's good at body management.
I make coffee with shaking hands. The good stuff I found in a tin marked "EMERGENCY ONLY." Well, this feels like an emergency. My body won't stop remembering his hands on my arm, gentle despite the blood on them. The way his shadows went warm for me after being weapons for her.
"Get it together," I tell myself. "It's just protective murder. Very normal. Very manageable."
When I get to his study, coffee careful in my good hand, he's at his desk in just his briefs, the bloody shirt in a heap on the floor.
I freeze in the doorway.
He's... there's so much of him. All muscle and scars and lean strength that his clothes usually hide. Shadow marks run up his arms like dark veins. Regular scars too—knife wounds, burns, things I don't want to know the origins of. His back is a map of violence survived.
"Coffee," I squeak.
He turns, completely unbothered by his state of undress. "Good. I need it."
I can't look away. My eyes have forgotten how to work properly. They keep tracing the lines of him—shoulders to chest to the trail of dark hair that disappears into his briefs. Which are black. Of course they're black. Everything he owns is black except now I know his skin isn't, it's pale with those scars and I should stop staring but I can't.
"Olivia?"
"Hmm?"
"The coffee?"
"Right. Yes. Coffee." I walk forward on autopilot, set it on his desk, try not to notice how his stomach muscles move when he reaches for it. "You're very... undressed."
"The shirt had blood on it."
"That's reasonable. Blood is hard to wash out. You need cold water. Hot water sets the stain." I'm babbling again. "Though sometimes salt helps. Or hydrogen peroxide. But that can bleach colors, so you have to be careful."
He's smiling now. Actually smiling. "Are you giving me laundry advice?"
"Someone has to. You can't just throw away shirts every time they get bloody. That's not sustainable." I'm still staring at his chest. When did that become something I wanted to touch? "You should put on a shirt."
"Should I?"
"Yes. Definitely. For... warmth. You'll catch cold."
"It's summer."
"Drafts. This old house has drafts."
