Sometimes it looks like patience.
A clean cloth. Gentle fingers. A man sitting still because he trusts you enough to let you touch him.
I press a small bandage over the worst scratch near his wrist, smoothing the edges with my thumb.
His gaze drops to my hand. “I should go. Luna’s home alone.”
“I’ll drive you. As soon as I have you all cleaned up.”
I step closer. So close I feel the heat radiating from his body, though neither of us comments on it.
“Are you sure?” His gaze searches mine.
“Yeah.” I give him a soft smile. “I’m not mad, Drew.”
He cocks his head. “You’re not?”
I shake my head.
I can’t be angry.
Not after he crossed a line for me.
Because even when he’s suspicious, embarrassed, drunk, and ridiculous, he still finds his way to me.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I lift one shoulder. “Because you’re bad at stalking. But you’re still here.”
His startled laugh fills the bathroom. The sound warms everything inside me.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s affectionate.”
His expression changes, softening. He looks down at my hand where it rests against his forearm. Then back at me.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology is quiet. Sober, even if he isn’t.
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t have come here like this.”
“No,” I agree. “You probably should have waited until you weren’t full of whiskey and bad ideas.”
He winces, then rubs a hand over his face. “Please stop making me feel worse.”
I smile and reach for another wipe.
He catches my wrist gently.
My chest hitches.
