"I'm fine."
“Hmmm.” He just stood there in the doorway, still filling it completely—all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, his bare chest covered in ink that told stories I was only beginning to understand.
He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed from having sex. Hair wild and tousled, yet somehow still stylish in that effortless way.
Dark pants hung low on his hips.
Bare feet on the kitchen tile.
And those eyes were sharp, assessing, and seeing straight through my bullshit. "You're not fine. And we both know it."
I shivered.
“So, let’s talk.”
Chapter eight
Where Fire Cannot Follow
Nyomi
Hiro crossed the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Bare-chested.
All that ink and muscle on display as he moved toward me.
I should have told him to stop.
Should have waved him off and pretended I was okay.
But my skin was still too hot. Flushed. Burning from the inside out. The phantom smoke had crawled into my lungs and stayed there. The ghost of flames still licked behind my eyes every time I blinked.
And I couldn't look away from him.
Couldn't find the words.
Could barely breathe as he closed the distance between us.
Then he was there.
Right in front of me.
He wrapped those big arms around me and pulled me close to him. Soon his chest was warm against my cheek. And the scent of him. . .
He doesn’t smell like sake this time.
The last time I'd been this close to Hiro, alcohol had clung to his skin. In fact, he'd been drowning in it. Sleeping in the kitchen because he couldn't face his own bed.
But this morning he smelled like ocean air and wet stone.
Like salt.
Like brine.
Like the cold depths that never saw sunlight.
