I stand. Bad ankle first. He catches my waist before I even sway, two hands at my ribs. Careful of the bruising. He walks me the six steps to the couch like we're practiced at this. Like we've done it a hundred times.
He sits.
I sit beside him.
Not against him. Not yet.
His arm goes along the back of the couch. Not around me. Near me. The heat of him runs down my spine anyway.
"Earlier," I say.
"Yeah."
"The thing that got interrupted."
"Yeah."
"Was I imagining it."
"No."
"Are you going to tell me all the reasons it can't happen."
"I was planning on it."
"Please don't."
He turns his head. Looks at me. I've never had a man look at me the way this one does. Like he's memorizing a route. Like he's deciding something.
His hand comes off the back of the couch.
Fingers brush my jaw. Turn my chin toward him.
"Delilah."
"Hawk."
He kisses me.
Slow. The first press of his mouth against mine is careful, the way his hands have been careful with my ribs and my ankle and every bandage he's changed. His beard is soft, softer than I thought it would be. His lips are warm.
Then his hand slides back into my hair and he tilts my head and he kisses me like a man who has been holding himself still for three days.
My notebook slides off my lap onto the floor.
I don't care.
My good hand fists in the front of his flannel. His other arm comes around my back and he pulls me into him, careful of the ribs, careful of everything, and the noise I make into his mouth is embarrassing and I don't care about that either.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe against my mouth.
"Going to stop in a minute."
"Why."
"Because you're hurt."
"Not that hurt."
