“Ahh, there’s the problem,” she says.
“I thought your background was marketing? You sure you aren’t a medic?”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “I was a camp counselor one summer when I was in college,” she explains. “I dealt with a lot of sprains, broken toes, things like that. A kid with a skinned knee tried to convince me he was dying.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks. I learned the kids wouldn’t panic if I stayed calm.”
The smell of her shampoo is subtle, but it still invades my senses as she cleans my skin and tapes theshoulder.
“So,” she says lightly when she’s almost done, “why do you hate doctors so much?”
I shrug with my good shoulder. “I learned not to make pain anyone else’s problem. If I can still function, I’m fine.”
She arches a brow. “I’m guessing that’s a Marine thing?”
“I guess, but I learned it earlier than most.”
When I don’t say anything else, she stops what she’s doing and cranes her neck so she can look me fully in the face. It’s my signal to continue.
“In foster care, getting hurt meant questions,” I say. “Reports had to be filed. Someone was likely to decide you had to move again.”
She continues taping, and to my relief, her voice doesn’t fill with pity. “Why is that?”
“Being hurt makes you a problem. And problems get passed along.”
“How many homes were you in?”
I flex my fingers, testing the arm again. “I lost count.”
She works quietly, encouraging me to talk if I want. And to my surprise, I do.
I tell her about the houses that smelled like bleach. The way rules would be posted on refrigerators like final warnings. About the hard lesson I learned early on about not getting attached, no matter how good a situation seemed.
“I can imagine it would be hard to ever trust people,” she says. “But it seems different for you with Atlas and Viper?”
“The kind of bonds made in the Corps don’t vanish overnight.”
She secures the last strip of tape and steps back to survey her work. “Brothers by choice,” she says. “You’re still a family.”
Our eyes meet, and something shifts. She’s close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. Close enough that the line I’ve been careful not to cross starts to blur.
When she sets the tape back in the first aid kit, I reach for her hand and pull her even closer. She meets my eyes, then her gaze drops to my mouth. I get to my feet, cup her face in my hand, and press my lips to hers.
It just happens. Same as her taking cover the other day. Same as moving toward trouble instead of away from it. Pure instinct.
Her hands slide up my bare chest, fingers curling into my shoulders. We pick up where we left off that night in the workshop, and now that I’m tasting her again, I want even more.
My hand goes to her waist, carefully, like I’m afraid to break her. She fits in my grip too easily. Everything feels too right.
The kiss deepens, but I go slow, even though every part of me wants to take more. Her mouth opens under mine, so trusting, and that hits harder than anything else.
Reality crashes in like snow collapsing the roof of an old shed. I pull away, my breath ragged. “I can’t.”
Her eyes scan my face. “Because of Andrew?”
I swallow and step backward. “Because of all of it.”
