“One second.” I grab a pillow from the bed. “You need lumbar support to keep the pressure off your side.”
I bring the items to the couch. I place the water on the table. I tuck the pillow behind his good side. I spread the blanket over his legs.
“You’re hovering,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t stop me. His eyes track my hands as I smooth the blanket.
“I’m optimizing your recovery environment.”
He catches my hand.
His grip is warm, calloused, and unyielding. It stops me mid-motion.
“Stop.”
I freeze. “I’m just trying to?—”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re organizing the room because you can’t organize your head.” He tugs my hand, gently this time. “You’re nervous. Sit. Please.”
I sink onto the cushion beside him, careful to leave space for his injury. The leather creaks beneath us.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Liar.” He shifts, turning his body toward me despite the stiffness in his spine. He keeps my hand in his, his thumb tracing the line of my knuckles. Back and forth. A rhythmic, soothing pattern. “You’re vibrating.”
“It’s the adrenaline crash. Statistical probability of post-traumatic?—”
“Talia.”
I shut my mouth.
He lifts my hand, pressing his lips to the back of my fingers. The contact sends a jolt straight to my core, warmer than the room, sharper than the pain in my ribs. He lingers there, his breath ghosting over my skin.
“We’re safe,” he says against my knuckles. “Nobody is shooting at us. Nobody is hunting us. It’s just us.”
“Just us,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. He studies it, tracing the small cuts, the grime under the nails, the bruises on my skin. He treats my hand like a map he’s memorizing.
“You have nice hands,” he says quietly. “Capable.”
“They’re shaking.”
“They’re steady enough to stitch me up.” He looks up, meeting my eyes. The intensity there steals the air from my lungs. “They’re steady enough for me.”
The air in the room changes. It thickens. The exhaustion recedes, replaced by a slow, heavy gravity pulling me toward him.
He reaches out with his other hand—the good one—and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my neck, warm and rough. He isn’t rushing. He’s taking his time, savoring the fact that we have time to take. His thumb brushes the pulse point under my jaw.
“Fast,” he notes.
“You have that effect on me.”
“Good.”
He leans in.
The kiss is slow. Tentative. It tastes of coffee and fatigue and relief. It’s a question.Are we here? Is this real?
I soften against him. My hand comes up to cup his jaw, the stubble scratching my palm.
