“Too much?”
“Don’t talk.”
A smile threatened despite everything.
I moved lower, kneading the corded muscle between his shoulder and spine. The thermal shirt was soft beneath my palms, warm from his body. I knew the garment. I had owned it for years.
The body inside it felt both achingly familiar and newly unknown.
He had lost weight. The broad strength I remembered had thinned. His posture guarded the healing side of his body even when he was not conscious of doing so.
But the way he yielded under my hands was unmistakably Noah.
His breathing deepened.
His right hand relaxed against the table.
“More pressure,” he murmured.
I obeyed.
He groaned.
Heat tightened low in my body before shame cut through it.
This was care.
He was in pain. He trusted me enough to let me ease it.
I forced my touch into something clinical and controlled.
Noah lifted his head a fraction. “Why did you stop?”
“I didn’t.”
“You pulled away.”
“I’m working lower.”
“You went tense.”
“My own neck hurts.”
“Terrible lie.”
I resumed the massage before he could look at me.
His lips curved even though his eyes stayed closed.
“When did you learn to do this?”
“You used to come home with headaches after crawling through engine compartments all day.”
“And you did this for me?”
“Often.”
“Did it work?”
