Every movement was efficient.
He pulled out a charcoal-gray T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, then returned to the bed, placing them beside me without ceremony.
“Change into these,” he said.
His voice was calm.
I gave a small nod.
It was all I could manage.
I reached for the shirt he’d given me.
The fabric was soft.
Warm.
It slipped over my head easily, falling over my frame and down past my hips like a dress.
His scent hit me immediately.
I froze for a second, just holding onto that feeling.
Then my eyes shifted.
To the sweatpants.
I stared at them.
My stomach twisted slightly at the thought of pulling them over my legs. The waistband. The fabric.
The pressure against torn skin.
It was too much.
I shook my head faintly and looked away, swallowing hard.
“I... can’t,” I whispered, almost to myself.
I didn’t expect him to respond.
From the corner of my eye, I watched him.
He had stripped out of his drenched clothes with the same quiet efficiency.
Broad shoulders moved under his skin as he changed, the line of his spine visible for a brief moment before the shirt covered him again.
Black joggers. A fitted long-sleeve shirt.
Dry. Controlled.
He never once looked directly at me.
Not while he changed. Not while he moved.
Only when he reached for his phone did his attention shift.
His thumb moved across the screen with sharp, impatient motions.
