It was awareness.
Of me.
Of this.
Her skin burned under my grip—soft, alive, mine. An electric tension sparked between us, sizzling through the space that had no business existing anymore. And God help me, she was wearing my jersey. Drowning in it, the hem brushing her thighs like temptation incarnate.
She looked like war and want all at once. Fierce, chin high, eyes blazing—but I saw it. That flicker of vulnerability buried beneath the fire. That crack in the armor.
It made something vicious stir inside me. Something that wanted to pin her to the locker room wall and remind her exactly who she belonged to.
My breath caught as I inhaled—vanilla, warmth, something delicate and untouchable, yet here she was, completely touchable. That scent went straight to my spine, coiling low, making me forget every rule I’d set for myself.
But then she moved. Slipped out of my grasp like smoke and stepped back. The spell broke—barely.
She turned to the med kit I hadn’t even registered before. Her hands were steady as she pulled out supplies, but mine? Mine were still shaking with restraint.
She returned to me, gaze hard, steps deliberate. The healer now. Not the temptation.
“Hold still,” she muttered, focused on my wound like she didn’t feel the weight between us.
I didn’t flinch, even as the antiseptic stung. I welcomed it. Pain was easier than the hunger clawing at my ribs.
“Is this how you intend to nurse me back to health?” I asked, voice rough with something darker than amusement.
Her eyes shot up, sharp as a blade. She didn’t answer, just pressed harder. Good. I liked her angry. Angry meant she still cared.
“I could’ve done it myself,” I added, low. Letting the silence fill with everything unsaid. “But I prefer it this way.”
Her fingers brushed my skin again. Gentle. Intentional. She wasn’t just tending to a cut—she was peeling me open.
And fuck, I let her.
Every touch was a new wound. Every glance, a provocation. This wasn’t about bandages. It was about boundaries, and how close we were to burning them to ash.
“I’d rather not bleed,” I said, softer now.
A flicker passed through her expression, but she didn’t stop. She pressed the bandage down, her fingers sure. There was no hesitation in her hands, but her eyes—her eyes betrayed her.
“I’m not here for you,” she said. Sharp. Final.
But her gaze lingered too long. Her breath hitched when mine did. Her lie tasted sweet on her tongue, but I could smell the truth underneath.
She wasn’t here for me.
But she stayed.
And that pull between us?
It was only growing stronger.
Her touch was too gentle.
Precise.
Careful.
She treated the wound like it mattered. Like I mattered.
