He never left my face. Tracking every expression, every shift in focus.
Like he felt it too. Did he?
My cheeks burned.
His hand caught my wrist. Gentle but firm, stopping my movement.
I looked up.
The intensity there stole my breath. Not blank now. Not empty. Something raw and hungry and barely contained.
“Xavier...” My voice came out barely a whisper.
His thumb traced my pulse point. Once. Twice. Then he released me, gaze dropping.
Permission. Or warning. I wasn’t sure which.
I moved to the gash across his scalp. Peeled back the blood-crusted gauze carefully, revealing the deep laceration. It had torn open at one end, fresh blood matting his hair.
“You have a skull like concrete,” I muttered, cleaning it. “How you don’t have a worse concussion is beyond me.”
He tilted slightly, giving me better access. The movement put his face inches from mine, close enough I could see the exhaustion around his features, the fever-flush still staining his cheeks.
Close enough to feel his breath against my collarbone. Close enough to smell him, sweat and blood and something underneath, something that made my hindbrain sit up and take notice.
Close enough that when I leaned in to apply the glue, my chest brushed his shoulder. The contact sent electricity straight through me.
I swallowed hard. Focused on closing the gash, I wanted to touch him without the excuse of medical necessity.
Smooth, even pressure. The glue set quickly.
“There.” I stepped back, putting distance between us. Needing distance before I did something stupid. “Try not to ruin my work again.”
His eyes stayed dark, intense. Locked on mine like he could see every thought I was trying to hide.
I turned away, busying myself with cleanup, needing to not look at him for a minute. Needing to get my body under control.
The tactical gear still sat in a ruined pile on the floor. Blood-soaked, torn, evidence of whatever hell he’d escaped. I grabbed it, needing the distraction.
“You should search this.” I carried it to the bed. “Maybe something will trigger a memory.”
Safer than standing here feeling the weight of his stare, the pull of whatever this was building between us.
He was already reaching for it. Moving through the ruined gear with knowledge that made me pause.
Methodical. Systematic. Not random searching.
His fingers found seams, checked hidden compartments I hadn’t known existed. Felt along edges, testing for concealed pockets. Moved through the Kevlar vest with the kind of trained precision that said he’d done this before.
Many times before.
I settled on the edge of the bed, watching. Fascinated despite myself.
Who taught you that? Where did you learn to search gear like you’ve memorized every possible hiding place?
His body knew what to do even when his mind didn’t. Muscle memory without context.
Beautiful hands, really. Long fingers, callused palms, moving with efficient grace. The same hands that had held my wrist so gently, that had traced my pulse like he was memorizing it.
