Page 104 of Sexting His Assistant

My stomach sinks. “Your shoulder,” I say.

His eyes open. “Is still attached.”

“That’s your medical update?”

“It is accurate.”

“You probably reopened something.”

“I did not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I would feel it.”

“You got shot and tried to argue that it wasn’t important.”

He looks at me for a long second. “You’re becoming repetitive.”

“I don’t want your blood on my bedsheets. They’re silk, for your kind information,” I tell him.

His mouth twitches.

I sit up, dragging the sheet with me, because being naked beside him is one thing when we’re actively losing our minds and another thing entirely when he’s watching me with that dark, steady expression. The sheet slips under my arms. His gaze drops once, then returns to my face.

“Don’t look smug,” I say.

“I’m not looking smug.”

“You always look smug.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Then your face has an ego problem.”

I climb out of bed before that smile can do anything worse to me and pull on the oversized sweater from the floor.

Just a sweater and shaky legs.

Luka watches me move around my own bedroom like he’s forgotten there are other things in the world worth seeing.

I go to the bathroom, dampen a clean cloth, find the small first-aid box I use for burns, headaches, and occasional shaving injuries, and return to the bed.

He’s still there.

Still naked from the waist up.

Still too large for my bed, my apartment, and every sensible boundary I have.

“Sit up,” I say.

“No.”

I pause. “No?”

“You are not a doctor.”

“And yet, tragically for both of us, I’m the only person here with basic concern for your wound.”