But I’m smiling despite myself—and I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
Of course, Troy notices and gives me a knowing grin.
“C’mon,” I grumble, pushing myself carefully to my feet. “Before Ichange my mind.”
I lead him down the hallway toward the bathroom. The familiar tile floor feels oddly foreign after days in a hospital bed. I reach in and turn on the shower, letting the water start warming up. Steam begins to curl softly toward the ceiling.
Now comes the hard part—getting undressed.
I fumble with the hem of my shirt one-handed, trying to work it up over my head without jostling my ribs or snagging the cast.
It goes… poorly. The fabric gets twisted halfway up my torso, and I grunt with frustration.
Behind me, Troy makes a quiettsksound. “Will you stop fighting with it and let me help?”
“I got it,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“You clearly do not.”
Before I can argue, he gently takes hold of the shirt and lifts it the rest of the way off, careful not to jostle my ribs or arm. Cool air brushes over my skin.
Troy’s hands linger for a moment. His gaze drifts slowly across my chest, my shoulders, the dark bruising still scattered along my ribs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my collarbone.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
Another kiss lands just below my throat.
“And strong as hell.”
My breath catches slightly.
His fingers slide softly along my waist and land on the hem of my jeans. He unbuttons them and starts tugging them off, his movements slow and careful. The stiff fabric wiggles down my thighs and pools at my ankles. I step out of them, kicking them aside.
Now standing in just my boxers, I carefully slip my arm out of the sling, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my ribs.
“Easy,” Troy says softly.
“I’m fine.”
He studies my arm, then glances toward the kitchen. “Hold on.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he disappears down the hallway.
A minute later he returns carrying a plastic grocery bag and a roll of tape.
I frown. “Where did you—”
“Kitchen drawer,” he says simply.
He cautiously slides the bag over my cast, making sure it covers the whole thing. Then he wraps tape snugly around the top to seal it.
“There,” he says, smoothing the plastic. “Now it’ll stay nice and dry.”
I flex my fingers experimentally. “Thanks.”
Steam fills the bathroom as the shower finishes warming up. The mirror above the sink fogs over, blurring Troy’s reflection.
He pulls off his own clothes, stepping out of the gray sweatpants and hoodie he slept in at the hospital, lying on that stiff couch. He never complained, not once. I told him he could leave—that he didn’t have to stay—but he insisted every time.
