He slipped the shirt over my head, careful not to tangle it with my hair, then tugged it down over my hips with a little pat.
“Very glam,” I said. “Real seduction wear.”
His eyes warmed. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ll be remembering the way you look in my T-shirt for a very long time.”
My heart did a slow, dangerous roll.
He sat at the edge of the bed, close enough that our knees brushed, and dragged a hand over his face. For the first time since this started, he looked a little shell-shocked too.
“You okay?” I asked, because it felt like the only question that mattered.
He let his hand fall, fingers drumming once against his thigh. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I ... yes.”
A beat passed. Then he slanted me a look that was almost disbelieving.
“I didn’t think about it,” he said.
“Think about what?” I asked.
“My leg.” His gaze dropped briefly to where the prosthetic stretched under his sweats, then came back to my face. “I didn’tthink about my balance. Or pain. Or what could go wrong. Not once. The whole time, the only thing in my head was you.”
Something hot pricked behind my eyes.
“Well,” I said, trying for light and missing, “you seemed pretty dialed in on the task at hand.”
His mouth twitched. “Lesson two seemed to require focus.”
I snorted. “Overachieving is what it was.”
“Guess I had a good teacher,” he murmured.
The compliment slid under my ribs and settled there, warm and heavy. We’d called this practice, framed it as work, but there was nothing clinical about the way he’d just taken my body apart like it was the only test that had ever mattered.
Pride swelled in my chest, sharp enough to hurt. Not pride in myself—though my ego was not exactly suffering—but in him. In the way he’d moved without second-guessing. In the way his hands had gripped my thighs like he trusted his own strength again. In the way he’d dragged a groan out of me and looked up like he’d just remembered his favorite language.
He hadn’t been a broken man with a compromised body. He’d been a man who knew exactly how to worship a woman and had been starving for the chance.
It was dangerous how much that made me love him.
I flinched internally as soon as the word surfaced, shoving it back down so fast my brain rattled. Not love. Not that. We had rules. It was literally thefirst one.
He sobered, eyes searching my face. “We should call it for tonight.”
A flicker of panic went through me before he added, quickly, “We should both probably get some rest.”
Relief and disappointment collided in my chest.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds good.”
His fingers brushed my hand, slow and hesitant, as if asking permission. I turned mine over and let our palms press together.Somehow the simple contact felt more intimate than his mouth between my legs had. There was nothing to hide behind here. No shock, no urgency. Just two people on a bed, holding hands like teenagers.
“I’ll ... let you get cleaned up,” I said, swallowing. “Or, you know, changed.”
A flush crept up his neck, faint but there. “Probably a good idea,” he muttered.
We just sat there for another long, quiet moment, our hands linked, breaths gradually settling in sync. The heater kicked on again down the hall. Snow tapped lightly at the window. Inside, everything felt unnaturally still.
“Thank you,” he said finally.