Marlowe is still asleep.
Her breath rises slowly against my chest, one leg slung across mine, fingers curled around the waistband of my shorts.
I haven’t moved in hours. Not because I’m too tired. I’m not. My body’s wrecked, my hand’s still split open, my ribs ache, and my brain’s chewing through every worst-case scenario like it wants to torture me. But I haven’t moved because this—her—wrapped around me like I’m something worth holding onto? It feels too good to let go. Fuck, if I could have it my way, we’d stay like this forever.
I rub at the edge of my cheek without thinking. The damn thing itches like hell. Marlowe did her best to clean it up last night—sat between my thighs with a warm towel and trembling hands, whispering soft curses under her breath like it hurt her more than me—but the bandage must’ve peeled off in the middle of the night.
When I pull my hand away, my fingers are smeared with blood. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
Marlowe stirs.
Her head lifts slowly from my chest, hair falling wild around her face, eyes still swollen with sleep. She blinks once, twice, then looks up at me with that low, lazy kind of concern only she can make look like sex. “Oh,” she murmurs, voice scratchy and sweet. “Your bandage came off.”
She pushes herself up, her small palms pressing against my chest, and leans over me to look at the gash. Her fingers come up, brushing lightly at the edge of the wound. It stings, but I’ve taken worse. Hell, I’ve walked away from worse with a smile and blood in my teeth. This? It’s nothing. It just looks bad.
“It’s still bleeding,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You need stitches.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, trying to sit up. She pushes me back down with one hand against my chest.
“Hold still,” she mutters. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.” She climbs out of bed in one of Bridger’s oversized shirts, and my gaze catches the bottom curves of her ass as she moves. Even with blood on my face and anxiety sitting like a brick in my stomach, I watch her. Because I can’t not. Because if there’s anything in this world worth bleeding for, it’s her.
She pads back into the room, dropping to her knees beside the bed, rummaging through Bridger’s overstuffed first aid kit. Last night, when he and Neve brought the thing back from the store, I gave him shit for being overly dramatic. Called him a Boy Scout. But now, with blood still wet on my cheek and Marlowe bent over a mess of gauze and antiseptic, I’m not laughing. She used more than half of it last night trying to clean me up.
“Here,” she says, holding something up between her fingers. “Look at this.” It’s one of those thin, medical butterfly closures—the kind that pinches the skin together, like fake stitches, without a needle. “Let’s try it,” she adds, her eyes flicking to mine, cautious but focused.
I grunt and tilt my face to the side, letting her lean in. Her fingers are warm, composed despite the tension still etched all over her expression. She peels the backing off, fingers shaking a little now as she lines it up over the worst part of the wound. She presses it on gently. Her fingertips glide over the edges, smoothing it flat. Her breath catches—not loud, but I feel it on my skin.
I stay as still as I can and watch her. Her face is inches from mine. The warm scent of her hair hits me all over again. I’m not thinking about the blood anymore. I’m thinking about how soft her lips looked last night. How hard it was to keep the promise I made not to touch her unless she asked me to.
Her eyes flick to mine. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That this hurts.”
I nod once, jaw clenched. “Not your fault.”
She smooths down the last strip and leans back a little. I don’t miss the way her gaze lingers. Not on the bandage. On me.
A knock hits the door. It’s not loud. Just enough to interrupt the quiet. “You alive in there?” Bridger’s voice slides through, half teasing. “How are you feeling?” he calls.
“I’m fucking fine,” I throw back.
There’s silence for a beat, then a low scoff. “Sure,” Bridger mutters. “Well, there’s a fresh pot of coffee.” Then he opens the door and hovers in the doorway like he’s got more to say but doesn’t know how to begin.
Marlowe stretches beside me, arms above her head, back arched, and the hem of her shirt rides up far enough to test every ounce of my control. Her thighs, smooth and bare, flash in the sunlight streaming in from the window and I swear I forget how to breathe for a second.
“You want me to get you a cup?” she asks, turning toward me like she didn’t just light me on fire.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She leaves, and the second she’s out of the room, Bridger comes in and drops onto the edge of the bed like we’re kids again.
I narrow my eyes. “Bro. I know this is your place and all, but what the fuck? Why are you on this bed with me?”
He shrugs, leans back on his palms like it’s the couch. “Is it comfortable?”
“What?”
“The bed. It wasn’t expensive. I figured it was good enough for a guest room. Too firm? Too soft?”
“It’s fine,” I grit out. “Stop being all domestic on me. What’s your real question?”
