My breath catches.
Footsteps echo. Heavy. Steady. Familiar.
I bolt to the living room, and there he is.
Alex.
He steps into the penthouse like a storm held at bay, but then stops walking when he sees me. He’s holding a Helmet in one gloved hand and dressed in a compression shirt that clingsto his chest and muscles like a second skin. He looks powerful, untouchable, and so breathtaking that my chest tightens.
But then I see it—a bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, like a cut, its faint but unmistakable. My brows pull together before I can stop them.
He just stands there, unmoving, his gaze locked on me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but his eyes… those cold, searing blue eyes… they betray him.
There’s anger in them. A bitterness. But under it, beneath the storm, I see it.
Relief.
Like, he didn’t expect me to still be here. Like he thought I’d be gone.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
But my feet begin to carry me toward him anyway. Slow, quiet steps over the marble floor. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I’m standing just a few feet from him. My fingers tremble slightly at my sides, but I don’t hide them.
His eyes don’t leave me. Not once.
I want to speak. I want to tell him I didn’t mean to flinch. That it wasn’t him in the nightmare. That the look he gave me before he left—like I’d gutted him with my action, has haunted me more than anything else tonight.
But the words stay locked in my chest.
So I just look at him. Really look at him.
The man who came back home bruised.
The man who makes my heart hurt when he’s not near.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. His throat bobs with a swallow, but his eyes still don’t leave mine.
I lift my hand slowly, carefully, my fingers ghost across his bruised jaw, the tips brushing with a featherlight touch. Hedoesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all. He just breathes through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself in his skin.
His gaze drops to my lips, then to the oversized shirt I’m wearing—his shirt.
Something flashes in his eyes. Hunger, maybe. Or resistant.
I don’t know.
His eyes lifts to my lips again, then back to my face.
“I’m sorry, Alex.” My voice is barely there. “I’m so sorry.”
His jaw tightens beneath my palm. I feel how hard he clenches it. But then, for just a second, his eyes soften a little.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says, voice low and steady.
That makes it worse somehow. I blink fast.
