The door pushes open instantly. He fills the frame.
He scoops me up again. My body already learning the shape of his, relaxing into the hold.
"You’re lighter than you look," he rumbles, carrying me back.
"Is that a compliment?" I mumble into his shirt.
"Observation. You’re soft."
Soft. The word curls my toes. A confession of a weakness he despises but can’t resist.
He deposits me on the mattress, adjusting pillows with meticulous care. Before he tucks the blanket around my hips, he notices a leaf from the ravine floor tangled in a lock of my hair near my temple. He doesn't say a word; he just reaches out, his massive, calloused fingers moving with the precision of a jeweler as he gently untangles the debris. His knuckles brush my skin, a feather-light caress that makes me blush harder than any of his growls. He ensures the hair is smoothed back from my face, his eyes lingering on mine with a soft, silent promise of safety that hits me right in the chest.
Such a domestic act for a man who could snap a baseball bat in one hand.
"Hungry?"
"A little."
He ladles something from a cast-iron pot on the stove. Steam rises in thick curls.
Returning, he pulls a wooden chair close. It scrapes loudly against the floorboards.
"Beef stew. My mom’s recipe. I’ve been letting it simmer on the stove since I brought you in." He holds out a spoon, the steam carrying the scent of rich herbs and seared meat. "I don’t do canned shit. You need real fuel to knit those bones back together."
"I can feed myself. My hands aren't broken."
He doesn't pull back. Dark eyes locked onto mine. A silent battle of wills. The Road Captain versus the scientist. I don’t spook easily.
I reach for the spoon.
He pulls it back. "Let me."
"Why?"
"Because you're shaking."
My hands tremble—aftershocks of trauma or adrenaline withdrawal. Defeated, I open my mouth.
He feeds me slowly. Rich, salty stew warms me from the inside. He watches my lips with a predatory focus that makes my throat tighten.
Every time I open for the spoon, his gaze darkens, fixed on the wet, glistening interior of my mouth. It isn't just lunch; it is a ritual of absolute submission. I am his to keep alive, his to feed, his to own.
When a drip of broth escapes and tracks down my chin, Tristan’s thumb swipes it away with predatory speed. He doesn't just wipe it; he shoves the rough, calloused pad of his thumb deep into my mouth, dragging it across my bottom lip to expose the wet, sensitive skin inside. I suck on his digit instinctively, my tongue swirling around the salty, grease-stained skin of his thumb.
He lets out a low, guttural growl, his eyes tracking the way my throat works as I swallow, imagining my mouth wrapped around his thick cock instead of a spoon.
He lets his thumb linger there, claiming my mouth, and the taste of his salt and skin on my tongue makes my breath hitch.
Time stops. The storm fades. Only the crackle of the stove and Tristan’s harsh intake of breath remain.
My eyes flutter halfway shut. I lean into his touch, seeking more. The drug-haze makes everything heavy, but the spark between us remains sharp.
Tristan’s gaze drops to my mouth. Pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. Hunger, stark and raw. He leans in, the chair creaking.
Hot breath laced with coffee ghosts over my lips. My heart collides against my ribs. I want him to close that distance. Want to taste the danger radiating off him.
"Tristan," I whisper. A plea to stop or continue, I don’t know.
