“Sore?”
“A little,” she whispered.
I focused on the wound. I focused on the way her skin was warm under my touch. I focused on the fact that she didn’t move away. She was trusting me completely, and I would never take that for granted. This brave, intelligent, beautiful woman trusted me.
“Are you still okay?” I asked, quieter now, searching her face for any signs.
She nodded. Barely. Her gaze didn’t meet mine, and that almost made it worse. I could see the pulse in her throatfluttering, the tight hold of her shoulders like she was trying not to feel how close I was. I kept my hand steady as I cleaned the area gently, dabbing the antiseptic without rushing. Her skin was flushed under my touch, a light blush spreading across her chest that had nothing to do with the shower.
“You’re doing good,” I said, needing her to hear something besides the silence crackling between us. “A little longer.”
She nodded again. I pressed a clean dressing against the gauze and taped it down carefully. My hand lingered for a beat too long, and when I looked up, her eyes were already on me.
“I, uh,” she said, voice catching. “There’s still the one on my forehead.”
“Right,” I breathed. “Let me see.”
She shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up slightly to face me. I scooted closer, close enough that my knee bumped hers. Close enough I could see the faint line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She tilted her chin up slowly, and I raised one hand and pushed back a damp piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered closed, and my thumb brushed against her temple.
She exhaled, hard, and her chest heaved.
“This might sting,” I said, but she didn’t flinch. She sat there, letting me care for her.
Her breath hit my jaw when I leaned in. My chest grazed her knees. I could see every detail of her face—how her lashes curled at the ends, how her lips parted slightly, how her cheeks turned pink when my hand settled lightly against her hairline. I pressed the wipe gently to the cut, and her breath caught.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, and god—her voice, it was deeper, raspy now. A tone I hadn’t heard from her before.
I pulled back enough to look at her, and she didn’t move. Her face was still tilted toward mine, her lips still parted, and when our eyes locked again, her breath hitched a second time.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth for a half second before it darted away again, like she couldn’t help it. I pressed the final piece of tape to her forehead and let my hand fall to my knee, forcing myself to breathe through the want humming under my skin.
“You’re all patched up,” I said, voice low.
She looked at me, eyes glassy but focused. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, dragging my hand over her cheek, neck, and down her arm Goose bumps broke out over her skin from my touch, and it took all my strength to remove my touch from her. “Let’s put on the Cubs game and relax.”
“Okay.” She stared at me, eyes wide and face covered in blush. But then her gaze moved down, and she frowned. “I got blood on your shirt! I’m sorry.” She bolted up. “I can try to get it out. Here, let me wash it.”
“Sloane, honey, it’s okay. I don’t care. Not the first time I got blood on a shirt.” I shrugged it off and turned the TV on. “You’re stressing right now, and I’m asking you to sit with me and relax.”
“But your shirt!”
“It’ll be fine. This is an old shirt anyway.” I held out a hand, waiting, hoping she’d take it. It took a minute, but she swallowed and reached out for me, where I settled her against my side as I found the game.
Once it was on, I relaxed into the cushion and realized that truly, no other place in the world felt better than the couch next to her. It was strange to be certain about that. It didn’t make sense—we hadn’t had much time alone, but there was something pulling at me when it came to Sloane Mercer. A feeling I wanted to pay attention to, even if I wasn’t sure yet where it would lead.
15
SLOANE
Icouldn’t get my body to settle. My legs were curled beneath me, one knee brushing his thigh, and the contact short-circuited every thought I tried to hold onto. The game played quietly on the screen, but I hadn’t processed a single pitch. I was too aware of him—his arm resting on the back of the couch, his chest rising slow and steady beside me, the faint scent of clean cotton and something warmer I couldn’t name. My fingers twitched against the hem of the blanket across my lap, desperate for something to do.
The cuts on my hand and arm throbbed beneath the fresh bandages. Not from pain but from how gentle he’d been. The way he handled me—like I mattered, like I wasn’t made of steel and expectation. My skin still held the memory of his hands, the way his knuckles dragged lightly as he cleaned with the gauze, the way his voice stayed steady while I unraveled. I should’ve pulled away sooner. I should’ve told him to leave hours ago.
His fingers moved behind me. I froze as he gently slid the clip from my hair and placed it on the table. The strands fell loose around my shoulders, and I didn’t move to stop him. His fingers sifted through the ends slowly, not tugging, not playing—justtouching. Each motion was deliberate, and I hated how much I noticed it. I hated that my pulse raced harder now than it had in that office when Hayes yelled.
