A few days later, we were back at the doctor’s office for my 12-week follow-up. Talon sat beside me in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, his hand resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles that were meant to be soothing. But I could feel the tension in him, the way his body was coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.
He hadn’t said much since we’d arrived, his jaw clenched as he stared at the floor, his knee bouncing frantically. His leather cut seemed out of place here, too rough and worn against the clean, clinical setting. I reached over and laced my fingers through his, squeezing gently. He glanced up at me, his green eyes softening just enough to ease some of the weight in my chest.
“You good?” he asked quietly, his voice low and gravelly.
I nodded, though my
