Stephano swears under his breath. "Fuck. I shouldn’t have touched you yet."
Touched. That’s one word for what he did.
I roll my eyes and plant a hand on his chest before his guilt can spiral. "Relax, Caesar. This is on me, not you. If I didn’t want you touching me, you’d be dead right now, not sulking over a little blood."
He still looks stricken, which is almost cute. Almost. "Ana…" He reaches out, fingers hovering just shy of my skin like he’s afraid of breaking me. Breakingme. The irony nearly knocks me out.
"Hey." I snap my fingers in front of his face. "Eyes up. I’m fine."
He doesn’t look convinced.
I sigh dramatically. "If you really feel that guilty, you can let me punch you in the stomach. Hard. Might improve your attitude."
That earns a startled laugh, rough, disbelieving, like he can’t decide if I’m joking—I’m not.
"I’m trying to take care of you, and you threaten me?" he murmurs, leaning in, forehead almost brushing mine.
"And yet," I say sweetly, "you’re still standing here."
He exhales, torn between desire and genuine worry. Then he moves, quick, competent, all business now. He grabs a first-aid kit from one of the drawers,pulls out gauze, antiseptic, and a roll of medical tape, all stored far too neatly for a normal human being.
"Sit," he orders.
I do, mostly because I’m curious what a man like him looks like while trying not to panic. He kneels beside the chair, hands steady, expression carved from focus as he peels the old dressing back. And fuck me if I'm not getting all wet again seeing this alpha specimen of a man kneeling next to me. I could get used to this. His fingers brush my skin once—barely a whisper—and a shiver runs up my spine so fast I pretend it’s irritation.
He notices. Of course, he notices.
"This is nothing," I mutter.
"You’re bleeding," he counters.
"You made me bleed harder two minutes ago."
His hands freeze. His breath does too. "Ana…"
The way he says my name is almost worse than the wound.
I smirk. "What? Too honest?"
He tapes fresh gauze over the reopened stitch, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to memorize every place he touched. "We shouldn’thave?—"
"Stephano," I cut in, catching his chin and forcing him to look at me. "I would do it again. Right now. Wound and all. So stop acting like you fucked a porcelain doll."
Something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes. Then, softer, almost grudgingly, "I’ll be more careful."
"You won’t," I say, brushing a thumb across his lower lip, "and that’s half the fun."
He huffs a laugh—low, wrecked—and I stand, letting him watch because Iwanthim to. Which brings us perfectly to?—
"Computer," I say, still slightly breathless, "Shower. Maybe coffee."
"Bed?" he asks, hopeful and evil.
I stare at him, incredulity rising in me, "We just finished."
"Ah, Zhena, that's where you're wrong." He steps closer to me, and his fingers brush against my lips, "I don't think I'll ever be finished with you."
I tap my bandage with two fingers. "Tomorrow, Marito.Today, I only break people with a keyboard."
