I feel it then—the unmistakable tension returning beneath my thigh. Solid. Insistent. Like his body hasn't gotten the memo that we're supposed to be done.
I tilt my head, amused. "You're kidding."
"I wish." His voice is rueful, edged with heat. "Apparently, my body disagrees with the concept of 'after.'"
"That long."
"Not even a little." His hand tightens reflexively at my waist, then stills, restrained. Controlled. "This is your fault."
"I'll take full responsibility."
His laugh is low, strained. "You say that now."
I don't move away. Instead, I let my fingers drift across his chest, exploring what I couldn't see in the rush of before. Mapping him isn't like reading a tactical layout or scanning a cliff for the next 5.10b hold. It’s a study of gravity and grace, the way muscle gives way to bone, the way his skin hums undermy touch. For the first time, I’m not climbing for survival. I’m climbing to discover something new about myself.
There's a scar beneath his left pectoral—thin, surgical, maybe four inches long. I trace it with my fingertip.
"This one?"
"Collapsed lung. Afghanistan, 2019." His voice is steady, but his breath catches when my finger reaches the end of the scar. "IED shrapnel. They had to crack me open to reinflate it."
"Jesus."
"It's not as bad as it sounds." His hand covers mine, presses it flat against his chest. His heartbeat is fast beneath my palm. "I was back on my feet in six weeks."
I find another scar—this one on his side, jagged, less clean. "And this?"
"Knife fight in Mogadishu. Lost the fight, kept the kidney." He grins at my expression. "The other guy looked worse, I promise."
"How much worse?"
"He stopped looking like anything pretty quick."
I should be horrified. I'm not. There's something about the matter-of-fact way he says it—no bravado, no drama, just truth—that makes it feel like intimacy instead of confession. He’s a map of battles won and lost, and for once, I don’t feel the need to look away from the damage.
My fingers travel lower. Find a cluster of small, circular, puckered scars on his hip.
"Shrapnel," he says before I can ask. "Same IED as the lung. They dug most of it out, but there's still a piece in there somewhere. Sets off metal detectors."
"You're a mess."
"I prefer 'well-seasoned.'"
I laugh. The sound surprises me—soft and warm in the cold air. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
"Your turn," he says.
"My turn?"
"Fair's fair." His fingers drift down my arm, find the thin white line on my elbow. "This one."
"Fell out of a tree when I was nine. Twenty-three stitches."
"Climbing trees already. Should have known." His hand moves to my shoulder, finds a small circular scar I'd almost forgotten about. "Here?"
"Chicken pox. I scratched."
"Rebel." His voice is teasing, but his touch is reverent. Like he's mapping me. Memorizing me. "What about this one?"
