Nash turns just enough to find my eyes. Doesn’t stray lower. He looks like a man standing in the middle of a minefield.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”
He kneels beside the tub, and every part of me stills.
“I’ll hold the towel up,” he murmurs. “You just… stand. I won’t look.”
“You will have to look. Eventually.”
His gaze flicks to my face and something passes through his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Only if you ask me to.”
My heart thuds. My breath skips.
I nod.
He holds up the towel like a shield and keeps his gazelocked on the wall as I brace a hand on the edge and begin to rise. I wobble. He steps in closer, one hand braced under my elbow, steadying me.
My bare shoulder brushes his forearm like a live wire.
We both freeze as the air between us snaps, tight and electric.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m good.”
“Step here.”
He helps me onto the mat, and the towel—mercifully—covers most of me, though not the pounding of my heart or the flush beneath my skin.
His hand hovers at my back as I reach for the crutches.
But they’re too far.
He sees it a second before I do and moves.
Fast.
His chest brushes my back as he steps around me, grabs the crutches, and sets them gently within reach. He lingers for a second too long.
Or maybe not long enough.
Then his voice—low and ragged—right beside my ear:
“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me.”
I turn my head slowly, heart thundering.
“It’s not just you,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, gray and storm-thrashed and burning.
Everything in me begs to drop the towel, to step into his arms, to feel his lips on mine, his hands on my skin. I want to taste him. To know him. To soothe this trembling ache building deep and low and tender. Nash steps back,hands dropping to his sides, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For coming to my rescue. Again.”
He nods once, then steps out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
