His eyes went dark. Dragged from the clothes to my face. “You wish to see me in this, mate?” His voice had gone rougher. “Is this some... fantasy of yours?”
My face went nuclear. “No! It’s not that. I need your help with something, and you have to wear this tohelp.”
He didn’t look convinced. But his hands immediately went to the hem of the t-shirt he was wearing. Started to pull it up.
“Not here!” I squeaked.
He paused. Lifted one eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because - just go change in the bathroom!”
“You have seen me naked, little mate. Multiple times. Why does this bother you?”
He had a point. A very good point that I chose to ignore.
“Okay, fine.” I crossed my arms. “Change here. But let me check your injuries first. Have you been treating them like I showed you?”
“No.”
I blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
“I have not been treating them.”
“Malachar!” Alarm shot through me. “I gave you everything you needed! The cream, the bandages, the instructions-”
“I know.” He was still watching me with that intense gaze. “But I like when you do it. I did not want to... mess with your work.”
I didn’t know what to feel about that. Frustration? Concern? Something warmer that I absolutely refused to acknowledge?
He pulled his shirt over his head before I could form a coherent response.
I gasped.
The wounds across his ribs were angry red. Not bleeding, but not healing either. Still raw and painful-looking. The bite on his shoulder looked even worse, the edges inflamed.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I marched over to the first aid supplies. “You’ve been walking around with infected wounds for three days?”
“They are not infected. Simply not healing.”
“Because you’re not treating them!” I grabbed the antibiotic cream. The good stuff I’d ordered online after realizing the regular drugstore variety wasn’t cutting it. “Sit. Now.”
He obeyed, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs. His bare torso was on full display. All those muscles and scars and that insufferable smirk.
I tried to focus on the wounds. Only the wounds. Not the way his skin felt under my fingers. Not the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Not the way he was watching me.
I squeezed cream onto my fingers and started dabbing it along the worst of the gashes on his ribs.
He grunted. The sound rumbled through his chest.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “This might sting. You’re making it worse by not taking care of yourself.” I worked the cream in carefully, trying to be gentle. “Why would you not treat these? They have to hurt.”
“The pain reminds me I am here. With you. That this is real.”
My hands stilled. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is the truth.”
I blew cool air over the cream to help with the sting. He made a noise that was half groan and half purr, vibrating through his whole body.
