Bad idea.
“And definitely not for the reason you think.”
He wipes his brow.
“Dr. Chondra didn’t clear you for this.”
The warmth spreading through my chest completely betrays the warning in my voice.
“I’m not doing anything.”
I give him the face I give my patients when I know they’re stretching the truth.
He gives me a sheepish shrug in return. “It’s just some light tinkering.”
I study his face for fatigue, then lift my hand, brushing my thumb over the bruised skin next to his stitches.
“Tell you what, if you humor me and call it quits for tonight, I’ll take out those stitches for you.”
That gets his attention, and the corner of his mouth kicks up in what could almost be considered a smile. Those damn blue eyes swallow me whole when they drop to my lips.
I lean back just enough to break the spell and they lift again.
“Thank fuck. They’re itchy as hell.”
“I bet they are.” My nose wrinkles as I look up at him. “And you’re getting them dirty.”
He drops the rag and straightens with a wince. I pretend not to notice.
“Get cleaned up.” A slide off the hood. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”
The sound of a baseball game drifts through the open loft window as I climb the stairs, the first-aid kit clutched in my hand.
Emmet’s at the sink, scrubbing grease from his hands, damp hair curling at his forehead. It’s one of those rare moments where he looks unburdened.
Pausing in the doorway, I watch until he lifts his head and spots me.
The grin he sends my way has my pulse picking up.
There’s something different about him tonight.
He seems lighter. Like a man who’s settled in his own skin—one who’s getting pieces of himself back.
And that does something to me I’m not ready to examine too closely. Because the more he heals, the more I remember he’s leaving.
“Got the kit,” I say, setting it on the counter, trying to ignore my swirling emotions.
“I can’t wait to sleep without these,” he says, drying his hands. “They keep snagging on my pillow.”
I step in when he moves away from the sink, reaching for the soap and counting the seconds in my head.
“Why don’t you take the stool?” I tilt my head in the direction of the island. “That should put you at the right height.”
The scrape of the metal legs on the wood floor fills the loft as he drags the stool into place.
“It should be easy. Just a little tug, but no pain.”
“I can handle it.”
