“It does,” she says softly. “Just not for the reasons you think.”
For one suspended moment, all I can hear is the rain.
Her hand lifts again, but this time it goes to the scar on my shoulder with more intention. She traces its edge with one finger and asks, quieter now. “Can we fix the new wound please?”
“It’s still nothing.”
She steps closer now, ignoring the trap in the room, ignoring the fact that I’m half-undressed and definitely not helping. Her focus is entirely on the blood.
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not.” She reaches for the first aid box and pulls out the antiseptic like this is suddenly the most natural thing in the world: standing in a locked suite with a man she nearly died with an hour ago, tending his injuries while he lies to security just to keep her near him a little longer.
Maybe it is natural. For us, apparently, all the wrong things are.
She wets a pad, then hesitates just before touching my shoulder. “This is going to sting.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“That is not reassuring.” Her hand lands lightly on my skin.
The first brush of antiseptic burns. The second doesn’t matter.
Because her fingers are careful. Because she’s close enough that the soft line of her dress brushes my thigh. Because every now and then her breath catches when she notices just how close we are, and each of those tiny sounds lands somewhere low and dangerous in my body.
I watch her while she works.
The slight frown between her brows. The concentration in her face. The way she bites her lip when she’s worried she’s hurting me.
“You should stop doing that,” I say.
She glances up. “Doing what?”
“Looking like you care.”
Her hand pauses on my shoulder. “Maybe you should stop making that so difficult.”
I take the gauze from her before she can pull away, but instead of using it, I set it aside and catch her wrist gently.
Her pulse flutters under my thumb.
“You should hate me tonight,” I say.
She searches my face. “Why?”
Because I’m lying to you. Because I brought you here. Because I want you in ways that make strategy impossible.
But none of those are the answer she wants.
So I give her the closest truth I can manage.
“Because every time I try to do the right thing,” I say, “I end up wanting the wrong one.”
Her lips part. She doesn’t pull her wrist free. And I know, with complete certainty, that if I kiss her now, I will not stop.
I pull her in before either of us can pretend this is still a bad idea.
Her mouth hits mine hot and immediate, like she’s been right on the edge of this for as long as I have. The kiss goes hard almost instantly. No hesitation. No testing. Just heat and hunger and everything we’ve been trying not to do.
She tastes like coffee and nerves and the soft sweetness that is just her.
