The front door opens with that same lazy creak I should be used to by now, but it still pulls my spine taut like a bowstring. I keep my eyes on the screen. Barely breathing.
“Hey,” comes the voice, all rough and casual.
I glance over—quick, neutral, casual. Except it’s anything but.
“Hey yourself” I breathe.
He’s holding a small white pharmacy bag in one hand, keys still hooked on his finger, like he just bolted out the truck door, mission-first. He looks down my body and the corner of his lips turn up as he sees me in his shirt. Suddenly, my damn throat’s tight for reasons I can’t explain without sounding like the kind of woman who writes cowboy poetry in her sleep.
He drops the bag on the coffee table in front of me, then sits down on the large coffee table in front of the couch. That same easy sprawl. But there’s a focus in his eyes that buzzes under my skin.
“I grabbed some Deep Heat,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “It’s not magic, but the warmth’ll help loosen the muscle. Better than ice now that the swelling’s gone down.”
I reach for the bag, careful not to wince when I lean forward. Pull out the box, the small red-and-white tube inside promising sweet, fiery relief. My fingers fumble slightly as I uncap it, eyes flicking up to find him watching me. Not in a pervy way. Not entirely. Just…watching.
That look again—slow and deliberate, the kind that peels away layers I didn’t even know I had.
My mouth tugs into a half-smirk as I start applying the ointment to my calf. “You applying for sainthood, Taylor?”
He leans back, the picture of cocky ease, that grin spreading across his face. “Nah. I’m the reason your leg hurts, remember? Just tryna earn back a few brownie points before the devil punches my ticket.”
God help me—I laugh. And it slides through me like warmth spilling over cold skin.
If he only knew, I tripped because I was too busy watching his ass in those Wranglers. And not just watching—studying. Fantasizing. Plotting crimes against my good judgment.
He hands me a glass, fingers brushing mine on purpose. I know it.
He knows I know it.
“Hydrate,” he murmurs, voice wickedly low. “Then let me take care of that leg.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I'm perfectly capable of putting ointment on my own calf.”
“Humor me, will you?,” he says again, kneeling in front of me. “It's the least I can do after nearly drowning you with my rescue attempt.”
There's something in his eyes—a vulnerability lingering from our moment in the river—that makes it impossible to refuse. I nod, extending my leg toward him.
The moment his fingers touch my skin, I forget how air works.
His fingers are warm and slightly calloused as they wrap around my ankle, positioning my foot on his thigh gently, like I’m something fragile—which is hilarious, considering I regularly outswim championship medallists—but then his calloused hands wrap around my ankle, and all capacity for sarcasm flies out the window. He’s kneeling between my legs like it’s a ritual. Like he’s about to make a goddamn offering.
He squeezes a dollop of ointment onto his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it before touching my skin again.
Then he starts.
His strong hands slide up my calf, his thumbs press in with just enough pressure to make my breath stutter. Every motion is slow. Deliberate. Sliding up and around the muscle like he’s memorizing every inch.
I have to bite my lip to keep the whimper lodged in my throat.
It’s not just physical—there’s something intimate in the way he touches. Like he’s learning me with each movement, like he’s trying to memorize my reactions in real time.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he murmurs, but his voice is torn—frayed at the edges, not remotely doctorly.
“God, no.” The words leave me on a breath I can’t quite catch. My head tips back against the couch, surrendering before I even realize I’ve done it. “Don’t stop.”
There’s a full beat of silence.
The second it’s out of my mouth, heat floods my face. Because it sounds exactly like what it is—desperate, unfiltered, honest.
