I couldn’t. I didn’t even understand it myself. All I knew was that my heart was racing like it was trying to win a NASCAR championship, my skin felt too tight for my body, and Colt’s hands on me were sending my thoughts in directions they had no business going. Directions that involved less clothing and more… everything else. And beneath it all was this strange sense of recognition, like my body was responding to something ancient and familiar, something my conscious mind couldn’t grasp.
He slid the button-down onto my arms, his fingers lingering at my wrists as he adjusted the cuffs like we had all the time in the world. Standing this close, I could smell his cologne—something woody and expensive that suited him perfectly. It reminded me of when we were younger, how he used to help me get dressed when I was sick with one of my frequent fevers.
“Remember when I got that terrible flu?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the strange tension in the small space that was making it hard to breathe. “You and Jaxson took turns staying home from school to take care of me.”
Colt’s hands stilled momentarily at my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point like he was checking if I was still alive. Given how my heart was trying to hammer its way out of my chest, it was a valid concern.
“You were burning up for days,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, like he’d swallowed gravel. “Scared the hell out of us.”
“You used to help me change into dry clothes when I’d sweat through everything,” I continued, the memory bittersweet. “You were so patient back then. Not all drill sergeant-y and bossy and ‘Lan, that’s not where the forks go’ every five minutes.”
His fingers worked the small buttons with surprising dexterity, each one bringing his knuckles in contact with my chest, my stomach. Each touch lingered a beat too long to be accidental, sending little sparks of awareness through my skin that pooled low in my belly.
“You were smaller,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrated through me like I was a tuning fork. “Easier to manage.”
“And now I’m just a pain in your ass, right?” I meant it as a joke, but it came out more vulnerable than intended, like I’d accidentally ripped off a bandage I didn’t know was there. “The annoying little brother who can’t even dress himself properly.”
Colt’s eyes met mine in the mirror, dark and unreadable, like staring into the depths of a stormy ocean. Something flickered in their depths—something hungry and possessive that made me shiver despite the warmth of the small space. “You’ve… grown.”
The way he said it, like it pained him somehow, made me frown. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens. People grow up. I can’t be the baby of the family forever, Colt.”
Was that it? Was he upset that I wasn’t the little kid who used to follow him around anymore? It would explain why he was always so harsh with me, always picking at my flaws and pointing out my mistakes. Maybe he just missed when I was younger and more dependent on him, when I thought he hung the moon and stars instead of just being an annoying control freak with a sock drawer more organized than my entire life.
“Sometimes I miss how you were back then,” I admitted quietly, watching his expression in the mirror. “You were nicer to me.”
“I was never nice,” he muttered, but his hands were gentle as they moved to my shoulders, adjusting the fabric with unnecessary care. His fingers trailed down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake like a trail of tiny fireworks under my skin. “You remember things wrong.”
“You were,” I insisted, trying to ignore the strange flutter in my stomach at his touch, like I’d swallowed a jar of butterflies. “You used to let me sleep in your bed when I had nightmares. You taught me how to ride a bike. You beat up Tommy Wilson when he made fun of my accent.”
“He deserved it,” Colt said simply, his hands now resting on my shoulders, warm and heavy and grounding in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. Our eyes met in the mirror again, and something in his gaze made my breath catch like it had snagged on a hook. There was an intensity there thatseemed almost primal, like something wild lurked just beneath his carefully controlled surface. “Try these next.”
He handed me a pair of jeans that looked impossibly small compared to what I usually wore—the denim equivalent of a compression bandage. I hesitated, suddenly very aware of how cramped the changing room was, how close Colt was standing, how the air between us felt charged with something I couldn’t name but could definitely feel crawling across my skin like electricity.
“I can put these on myself,” I said, my voice embarrassingly shaky. “You can wait outside. Or possibly in another state.”
“Just try them,” he replied, not moving an inch from his position on the bench. His eyes darkened with something that made my mouth go dry and my pulse skyrocket. “Unless you’re scared?”
“Scared? Of what? You?” I scoffed, trying to sound braver than I felt, which was approximately as brave as a mouse facing down a hungry tiger. And again, that strange comparison popped into my head—why did I keep thinking of Colt as a tiger? “Don’t flatter yourself.”
His lips curved into a predatory smile that sent a shiver down my spine, like someone had dropped an ice cube down my back. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I don’t need an audience to put on pants! It’s not a spectator sport!”
“Evidence suggests otherwise,” he countered, leaning back slightly, his posture deliberately casual though his eyes remained intensely focused on me, like I was prey he was considering how to devour. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Facing away from him because I wasn’t a complete masochist, I quickly unbuttoned my shorts, my fingers fumbling like they’d forgotten how buttons worked. I could feel the weight of Colt’s gaze on my back, on my legs, making my skin heatwith embarrassment—or something else entirely that I refused to name or acknowledge or possibly ever think about again. I let the shorts drop and stepped out of them as fast as humanly possible, nearly tripping in my haste because apparently my coordination was the first casualty of whatever was happening in this changing room.
“Graceful as ever,” Colt commented dryly.
“Shut up,” I muttered, grabbing the jeans and trying to step into them without making even more of a fool of myself, which was like trying to not get wet in a hurricane.
The new jeans were a struggle to pull on, the fabric clinging to my legs like a second skin as I wiggled and hopped in the small space. Unlike my usual baggy hand-me-downs that hung off my frame like curtains, these hugged every curve and contour I didn’t even know I had. With growing horror, I realized they showcased my butt in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Colt’s eyes tracked my every movement, his gaze practically burning holes in me as he watched the denim slide up my thighs with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“These can’t be right,” I said, struggling with the button like it was a Rubik’s cube designed by Satan himself. “They’re painted on! I can’t even?—”
“Turn around,” Colt commanded, his voice rough in a way I’d never heard before.
