He scanned the space automatically as they entered—professional habit. Her apartment looked different after the day they’d shared, softer somehow. More intimate.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Morgan said, setting her helmet on the entryway table. “I’m going to change out of these riding clothes. Would you like coffee? Wine? Something stronger?”
“Water is fine for now, but I can wait till you’re done,” he answered, still standing somewhat awkwardly in her living room.
“Coming right up. The remote is on the coffee table if you want to turn on some music or something.”
While she disappeared into the bedroom, Archer removed his riding jacket but left the helmet on to conceal his face. His long-sleeved compression shirt clung to his muscular frame. His neck gaiter tight around his throat. The apartment felt warm after a day in the wind, so he absently pulled up his tight sleeves a few inches, trying to cool off.
Morgan returned minutes later in yoga pants and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder, her face freshly washed and wavy hair tied back from her face. The casual intimacy of her appearance hit him harder than any elaborate evening wear could have.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him a glass of water. Her eyes took in his helmet with obvious curiosity, but she made no comment.
“Thank you,” he replied, appreciating her continued respect for his privacy.
She settled onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “Would you like to watch a movie? I feel like I should be exhausted after today, but I’m still buzzing with energy.”
“A movie sounds good.” It was such a normal suggestion, so refreshingly uncomplicated compared to the careful dance they’d been doing.
“Any preferences? I have a decent collection of film noir, since you mentioned liking it.”
“You remembered that,” he noted, surprised.
“I pay attention,” she said simply.
Something warm unfurled in his chest at her words. How long had it been since someone had truly paid attention to him, Archer the person, rather than Archer Sullivan the CEO or Bullet the mysterious biker?
“‘The Big Sleep’ is always a good choice,” he suggested, naming a Bogart classic.
“Perfect,” she agreed, reaching for the remote and starting the movie. “Would you like to sit? I promise I won't bite.”
Archer hesitated, then finally sat beside her on the couch—close enough that their knees could have touched, but leaving a breath of space between them. He wanted to be nearer, to feel her warmth against him, but didn’t want to risk making her feel cornered or pressured. As he settled in, he noticed Morgan’s eyes were drawn to his partially exposed forearm where the edge of a tattoo was visible beneath the pushed-up sleeve of his compression shirt.
“Is that a tattoo?” she asked, leaning closer for a better look.
Archer glanced down. “Yes.”
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward his arm.
He nodded, and she gently pushed his sleeve up further to reveal more of the design. The tight spandex resisted, clinging to his muscular forearm.
“It’s hard to see with this sleeve,” she commented, struggling a bit with the fabric.
“Here,” Archer said, tugging the sleeve up more firmly to reveal the full dagger tattoo. The compression shirt was tight enough that rolling it up was difficult, and it left the fabric bunched uncomfortably at his elbow.
“That’s incredible,” Morgan said, studying the intricate design. “It looks like it’s actually breaking through your skin. The detail is amazing.”
“Thank you. The artist was exceptional.”
Morgan looked up at him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “Do you have others? I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos. I feel like most have stories behind them, and I’m sure with your military background, yours have even more meaning than most.”
“I do,” he admitted.
“Would you mind showing me? Or is that too personal?”
Something about her respectful approach, the genuine interest in her eyes, made Archer want to share this part of himself with her.
“The shirt makes it difficult,” he explained, tugging at the tight spandex. “I’d need to take it off to show you properly.”
