Yes.
But I wanted one minute without having to decide what kind of man I was.
I wanted to feel her in the room before she put the armor on. Before Nurse Rourke swallowed Destiny whole. Before she turned clinical and careful and distant enough to make me want to tear my own stitches just to get a reaction out of her.
She stopped beside the bed.
For a few seconds, she didn’t move.
I could feel her looking at me.
That was not poetry. Not imagination. Destiny’s attention had weight. Heat. It moved over me like a hand she was too disciplined to use. My body knew when she was near, even half-wrecked and full of medication.
Then she exhaled quietly.
“Of course you’re asleep,” she whispered.
My mouth almost twitched.
She moved closer to check the IV lines.
The scent of her came with her.
Clean soap. Coffee. Hospital air. Something faint and warm underneath that belonged only to her.
The bed dipped slightly where she leaned in. Her arm crossed over my chest, careful not to touch more than necessary while she adjusted the tubing. A loose strand of her hair slipped forward, brushing the edge of my jaw.
Silk.
Blue-black under the ICU lights.
My body reacted before my conscience could stop it.
My fingers closed around her wrist.
Lightly.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to keep her there.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Dylan.”
I opened my eyes.
Her face was inches from mine.
Too close.
Not close enough.
Her mouth parted slightly, surprise softening all that hard-won professionalism. Her eyes were dark, tired, furious, and afraid of everything I could see in them.
“Caught you,” I rasped.
Her pulse kicked beneath my fingers.
I felt it.
