“I wouldn’t object,” she replied with a small smile, then quickly added, “But only if you’re comfortable with that.”
After a moment’s consideration, Archer consented and asked her to turn so he could remove his helmet and neck gaiter to get the shirt off before replacing the helmet. The cool air felt wonderful against his heated skin after a day of riding in full gear.
As he gave her the all-clear and she turned towards him again, Morgan’s eyes widened appreciatively, traveling over his toned shoulders and chest with obvious admiration.
“Wow,” she breathed, leaning closer to examine the artwork on his skin.
A stylized phoenix spread its wings across his right shoulder, while geometric patterns mixed with ancient symbols ran along his left bicep. Most noticeable was the intricately designed dagger on his right forearm, its blade appearing to pierce through his skin with hyper realistic detail.
“Military souvenirs, mostly,” he explained, surprised by his willingness to share.
Morgan’s fingers hovered near the dagger. “May I?” she asked, her voice soft.
Archer nodded, unable to speak as her fingers gently traced the tattoo’s outline. Her cool touch was light, almost reverent, bringing goosebumps to his overheated skin.
“This one looks newer than the others,” she observed.
“It is. Got it after leaving service. Reminder of things I’ve survived.”
Her fingers moved to the phoenix on his shoulder. “And this one?”
“From our unit. All five of us have it in different variations. Viper’s is more abstract, Diesel’s more mechanical, Hawk’s more detailed. Kane’s more tribal. But all phoenixes.”
“Rebirth from the ashes,” Morgan murmured. “What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Archer considered deflecting, but something about the moment—the quiet apartment, her gentle touch, the aftermath of a day spent together—encouraged honesty.
“Our last mission went sideways. We lost people. Nearly lost Hawk.” He kept his explanation deliberately vague. “When we got out, we all needed... reminders that survival was possible. That something new could emerge from destruction.”
Morgan’s fingers stilled on his skin. “Thank you for sharing.”
They settled into a comfortable silence as they enjoyed the movie, her fingers trailing idly along his skin as she scooted closer and leaned against his side.
By the time the movie ended, Morgan’s explorations had stilled, her hand resting directly over his heart. The steady rhythm beneath her palm seemed to soothe her, her body relaxing more deeply against his.
“You’re tired,” he observed, noting her heavy-lidded eyes.
“Mmm,” she admitted. “Today caught up with me. But I don’t want it to end.”
“You need rest.”
She made a small sound of protest when he shifted, dislodging her hand and turning her away from him, but then she sighed with pleasure when his hands found her shoulders. Archer began kneading the tense muscles there, feeling the knots from a day of riding.
“Oh my god,” she groaned. “That feels amazing.”
“Riding uses muscles you didn’t know you had,” he explained, working his thumbs along her shoulder blades. “Especially the first time.”
Under his ministrations, Morgan became increasingly pliant, small sounds of appreciation escaping her lips. He told himself to focus, to keep things simple. Just a massage. Just helping her relax. But those sounds—soft, involuntary, intimate—made it harder to remember where the line was. Or why he shouldn’t cross it.
When he’d thoroughly addressed her shoulders and neck, he gestured toward her feet. “May I?”
“You don’t have to,” she protested weakly.
“I want to.”
Morgan turned and tucked herself into the couch cushions while stretching her legs across his lap in surrender, and Archer began working on her feet through her socks. He found pressure points as he watched her every reaction, alternating between deep pressure and gentle strokes. Her eyes drifted closed, her breathing slowing.
“Where did you learn this?” she groaned drowsily.
