Regret struck immediately.
“I’ll bring you a shirt.”
“Don’t.”
I stopped.
“I’m hot,” he said.
“All right.”
I turned toward the kitchen.
His voice followed me.
“Did you enjoy looking at me?”
My hand closed around the counter.
“Yes.”
“Before the accident.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
I faced him.
He sat with one knee raised beneath the blanket, his injured side supported by pillows. Curiosity shaped his expression, not accusation.
“Yes,” I said again.
Color appeared at the base of his throat.
“Does that complicate things?”
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped.
“But it is not something you need to manage,” I added.
“You say that every time I ask about your feelings.”
“Because you keep treating them like invoices you have to pay.”
“You’re looking after me.”
“That does not put you in my debt.”
He turned toward the harbor windows. Thin morning light silvered the glass.
“Maeve asked whether I feel safe here.”
My chest tightened. “What did you tell her?”
“That I do.”
