Miller—
—is shirtless.
Like.
Fully.
Broad chest. Defined muscles. Skin warm under my hands. A leather vest hanging open like it’s barely doing its job of being clothing.
I jerk back as if I’ve been electrocuted.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I tripped and then there were scarves and?—”
Words. So many words. None of them helpful.
He’s still holding on to my arms, steadying me, his grip firm but careful.
“You okay?” he asks,voice low.
“I—yes—no—I mean, physically yes, emotionally—” I stop. Abort. Abort mission. “I’m fine.”
He releases me slowly, like he’s not entirely convinced.
And that’s when I reallyseehim.
The leather vest. The loose pants. The boots. The arm wraps.
The whole?—
“You’re a Dothraki,” I breathe.
He shifts, just slightly, like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” I repeat, becausewhat?
“I figured… it’s a themed wedding.” He shrugs, but there’s a tension in his shoulders I don’t usually see. “You said you were dressing up.”
Oh.
Oh.
He dressed up.
For me.
That realization hits me like a freight train straight to the heart.
“You hate costumes,” I say, because this is a known fact. “You didn’t even know whatGame of Throneswastwo weeks ago.”
“I did some research.”
“Did some—” I gesture at him. “This is not ‘some research,’ Miller. This is…commitment.”
His mouth twitches. “Seemed like the right move.”
The right move.
I am going to pass out.
