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“Rectus femoris. Vastus lateralis. Vastus medialis.” He pauses.

I look up despite myself.

He’s looking down at his own thigh.

“There’s another one.”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitches. “Want to come over here and point it out?”

“No.”

“Could be educational.”

“No thanks.”

“Your loss.” He shrugs.

I fear it may be.

My eyes conduct one final unauthorized survey—shoulders, the ink, the ridges of his stomach, lower⁠—

Oh.

Oh.

The boxers are doing noticeably less concealing than they were a minute ago.

My gaze snaps up to his face. He’s already watching me in the mirror, and he doesn’t look even slightly embarrassed of his…situation.

“Problem, Doc?”

“Nope.” It comes out a full octave above standard. “No problem.”

“You sure? You’ve gone pink.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“Mm.” He turns back to the mirror, rolls his shoulders, and mutters something to himself.

I bite down on a smile and flip to the next card, feeling—for the first time since his shirt came off—like we might be even.

The tailor reappears before I can formulate an appropriately devastating response, and crouches in front of Cal again.

“Legs slightly farther apart, please.”

Cal obeys.

Jesus Christ.

I drop my eyes to my flashcards so quickly I nearly give myself whiplash.

“Next question,” he says.

“I haven’t finished correcting your last answer.”

“I got three out of four.”