I step forward to help. I undo the buckle carefully, then slide the button through the loop, my fingers brushing against his waist. Harris stays perfectly still, watching me, something unreadable in his gaze.
When I finally tug the zipper down, I murmur, “Can you handle the rest?”
His throat bobs. “Sure.”
I nod, stepping back and grabbing a towel. “Take it slow, okay? If anything hurts too much, I have ice packs.”
Harris tilts his head, smiling slightly. “Nurse Lucy. I like it.”
I turn to leave so he can have privacy, but before I can step out, a whimpering little murmur reaches my ears. “Wait.”
I pause, hand on the doorknob, bracing myself.Here we go.
“What if I fall?”
I stare at his bare chest. “Hmm?”
He gestures toward the shower, expression that screams earnest—andI am full of shit. “I’m injured, Lucy. What if I lose my balance? Slip? Hit my head?” He lets out a pitiful sigh. “You’d never forgive yourself.”
I gape at him. “You expect me to believe yousuddenlylost your ability to stand upright?”
He is somber when he says “Tragic, I know.”
I watch as he presses a hand to his ribs, wincing—not enough to be concerning, but enough to guilt-trip me into oblivion.
“Nurse Lucy,” he whimpers. “Are you really going to make me suffer alone?”
Yes, I was planning on having him shower alone. I press my lips together, determined not to fall for his act. “You made it up my stairs fine. You’ll survive a five-minute rinse off.”
“Seriously? You would abandon me in my time of need?”
I glare. “Your time of need?”
He nods solemnly. “Vulnerable. Helpless.Soapy.”
Ihatethat a tiny,traitorouspart of me is picturing it—mestepping into the shower, warm steam curling around us, his body pressed close, soap-slicked skin under my hands—
But then heshifts, his ribs clearly bothering him more than he wants to admit.
I exhale slowly. “Fine.”
His brows lift, clearly surprised. “Fine?”
I cross my arms tighter, forcing myself to remain calm—like this is a logical choice and not an emotionally reckless one. “I’ll help.”
Harris grins like he won the damn lottery. “Well, well, well. Looks like I am the favorite patient after all.”
“No screwing around. If you fall because you’re trying to get handsy, I won’t be able to lift you.”
“Oh, I’m definitely getting handsy,” he promises, stepping into the shower first, groaning as the hot water hits his skin. He braces a hand against the tile, rolling his shoulders under the spray, letting it soak into his muscles.
I should give him a moment of privacy—shouldnotstare, should definitely not notice the way steam clings to the glass, blurring but notentirelyconcealing the way his silhouette moves.
But when I shift my eyes to his face, his gaze is onme.
Watching.
Waiting.
