Page 105 of Broken Blades

"You're warm. Still dehydrated."

Clinical. Practical. Like he was checking a patient. But his thumb grazed my cheekbone.

Just barely.

Just enough.

My brain flatlined.

Why does that feel good?

Why do I want him to do it again?

Why am I like this?

His eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second—so quick I might've imagined it—before he pulled back. Straightened. Stepped away like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just unraveled me with a single touch.

I sat there frozen, blanket clutched to my chest, lungs refusing to cooperate. He walked toward the kitchen without looking back. "Drink more water. You look like death."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except sit there with my cheek still burning from where he'd touched me, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

This was bad.

This was so, so bad.

Because he was right—I wasn't moving to Alaska.

I wasn't running.

I was sitting on his couch in his blankets drinking his coffee, and when he touched my face like I mattered, like I was something precious that needed protecting…

I wanted him to do it again.

I wanted more.

And that terrified me more than anything else that had happened since walking into his world.

I pressed my fingers to my cheek where his hand had been, still feeling the ghost of his touch, and whispered into the empty room, "I'm in so much trouble."

He returned from the kitchen with buttered toast on a plate, and two Advil balanced on the rim. Set both on the coffee table in front of me with the careful precision of someone who'd done this before. For someone else. Maybe for himself after rough nights he didn't talk about.

"Eat the toast. Take the pills. Drink the whole bottle of water." His tone left no room for argument. "Then shower. You smell like a distillery."

I should've been offended.

I wasn't.

Because underneath the gruffness was care. Disguised. Hidden. But there.

"Yes, sir," I muttered, reaching for the toast.

He paused. Something flickered across his face—surprise? amusement?—before he turned away, grabbing his coffee again.

"I have a game tomorrow."

I nodded, trying not to die from the sheer embarrassment of existing. "Okay."

He glanced at me. Quick. Sharp. Almost shy—if he were capable of such a thing. "You should be there."