Page 225 of What We Become

“Face me,” I say softly.

Eli obeys, his movements stiff. I start with his shirt, working the buttons free with steady fingers, even though my heart is still hammering against my ribs. When the shirt drops to the tile, I get the full map of the day. The bruise from his seatbelt is deepening to a violent plum, and the dressings on his wrists are frayed and stained.

I work slowly, peeling back the adhesive with a gentle touch. Eli’s breath hitches. Underneath, the skin is raw. I press a kiss to his shoulder, my lips lingering against the heat of his skin.

“Micah,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration.

“I know.”

Steam starts to curl over the top of the glass door, blurring the room into something soft and private.

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

I lift my eyes to his. “You’ve got your concerned voice on.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“My mistake. Very different voice.”

This time the corner of his mouth moves properly.

I get two buttons undone before the stiff fabric catches against my wrist, and I hiss. Eli’s hands cover mine.

“Let me.”

I let my arms drop.

He works the next button through its hole. Slowly. His fingers aren’t much better than mine, and the shirt is filthy, salt-stiff, and sticking in places I don’t want to examine yet.

“We could cut it off,” I offer.

“I can manage a fucking button.”

“Good. I’d hate to put that on the list of things that finally broke us.”

He breathes out through his nose and gets it loose.

The shirt comes away from my shoulders. I help where I can, and he eases the sleeves over my wrists, watching my face instead of the fabric. When it finally falls, his eyes roam over me.

At the bruising across my chest. The marks the restraints left. The ugly evidence of everything neither of us could stop.

His jaw shifts.

“Eli.”

I put my hand against his cheek when he doesn’t look up, and his eyes fly to mine, wide and wet.

“Micah.”

His hand comes around the back of my neck.

The first kiss hurts. We knock together badly, both too tired and too hungry to judge the distance. His mouth catches the corner of mine. I breathe his name, and he adjusts, slows down, his fingers spreading beneath my curls.

“I couldn’t get to you,” he whispers.

I stroke my thumb along his jaw. “I know.”

“You were right fucking there.” His fingers tighten at my neck. “I could see you. I kept thinking if I could get one hand loose⁠—”