Not just because of the injury.
Although, yeah—that’s there.
A long, angry scrape across his abdomen, maybe eight inches, red and raw but not deep enough to do real damage.
But also—him.
Shirtless.
Tan skin stretched over muscle that’s even more defined than I remember.
Hard lines. Strength. Power.
And tattoos.
Jesus.
I almost forgot about the tattoos.
He had some a few years ago.
But it looks like he added more.
My eyes track them before I can stop myself, tracing ink over his chest, his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
“Esme.”
His voice snaps me back.
I blink.
Focus.
Right.
Wound.
Not whatever that was.
“Don’t move,” I mutter, pushing to my feet and stepping closer.
I grab a cloth, wet it, and start cleaning the cut.
He hisses under his breath.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, even as I keep going.
“It’s fine.”
My hands are steady.
Good.
Because the rest of me?
Not so much.
I’m acutely aware of everything.
