He nodded, jaw tight. Whether from anticipated pain or something else, I couldn’t tell.
He lifted his leg—the one in the boot—and I instinctively reached out to spot him, my hand settling lightly on his bare calf just above the boot.
His skin was warm under my palm. I could feel the flex of muscle as he held the position, could feel the slight tremor of effort.
“One,” I counted. “Two. Three…”
I’d helped him with exercises dozens of times before, spotted him through countless reps, but I’d never noticed his unexpectedly soft leg hair or the constellation of tiny moles just above his right knee. “Eight, nine, ten. Good. Bring it down slowly.”
He lowered his leg, and I should have moved my hand. Should have pulled back, given him space.
But my hand stayed on his calf, thumb absently brushingagainst his skin. His eyes flicked to me, dark and unreadable, then away.
“Again,” I said, my voice rougher than it should have been.
We went through all ten reps like that. Me counting, him lifting, my hand resting on his calf to feel the muscles contract and release with each rep. The hair there was nearly black compared to my own light blond. I was noticing details I had no reason to notice. Things I didn’t have words for.
By the end, we were both breathing harder than the exercise warranted.
“That’s good,” I said. “You’re done.”
“Okay.”
Neither of us moved.
“I should…” He gestured vaguely at the couch. “Get up.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I stood and positioned myself to help him up. He reached for my hands, and I pulled him to standing, trying to be careful of his foot, trying to make sure he was stable.
But pulling him up meant pulling him close.
And suddenly he was right there. Right in front of me. Close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his brown eyes, could count the individual whiskers in his beard, could feel the warmth radiating off his body.
Close enough that I could feel his breath ghosting across my cheek.
Close enough that when his gaze dropped to my mouth, I felt it like a physical touch.
Time slowed. Stopped. The whole world narrowed to this—Marco’s face inches from mine, his hands still gripping mine, his eyes on my lips.
I wanted to kiss him.
The realization hit like a hard check to the boards. Sharp and undeniable and completely terrifying.
I wanted to close the distance between us. To know what his mouth would feel like against mine. Pull him closer and never let go.
I was leaning in. I realized it with a shock—my body was moving forward, pulled by something I didn’t understand, drawn toward him like gravity.
His breath hitched. His eyes widened slightly.
And I froze.
What the fuck was I doing?
I jerked back, my hands releasing his so fast he swayed. I shoved my shoulder under his arm, but that felt like too much contact. As soon as he had his balance, I practically thrust him toward the couch. “Careful,” I said, the word coming out harsh. “Don’t put weight on your broken foot.”
He sank onto the cushions, and I stepped back. Put the coffee table between us like a barrier. My hands shook, and I jammed them in my pockets.
