The heat coming off his body.
The way his thighs are braced, solid and strong around me.
The fact that I’m standing between his legs in nothing but a tank top and panties like this is completely normal.
My heart is pounding.
My skin feels too tight.
“Hold still,” I murmur, leaning in closer to get a better look.
His breath shifts.
Just a little.
I feel it more than hear it.
I clean the wound carefully, jaw tight with concentration, refusing to let my thoughts spiral anywhere they shouldn’t.
This is medical.
Practical.
Necessary.
Not whatever else this could turn into.
“You always did this,” he says quietly.
I pause.
“What?”
“Take over when I got hurt,” he replies, watching me. “Didn’t matter if it was a scratch or something worse.”
My throat tightens.
“Someone had to keep you from bleeding out over something stupid,” I mutter, trying for light but not quite getting there.
His lips twitch.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess that was you.”
Silence falls again.
Different this time.
Softer.
Heavier.
I finish cleaning the scrape and reach for the bandages, carefully pressing them into place.
“There,” I say quietly. “You’ll live.”
“Good to know.”
I straighten slowly.
