His mouth softens under mine. His free hand finds my jaw, cradling it like I’m something fragile, precious, his thumb sweeping along my cheekbone like a question he doesn’t want to ask out loud.
“I always want to kiss you,” I whisper, nose brushing his. “Even when I’m mad at you. Even when my head’s exploding.”
He breathes out a half-laugh and presses his forehead to mine. “You always wanna kiss me, huh?”
“Always.”
“Even when I smell like sweat and regret?”
I smile. “Especially then.”
His hand slides down, palm flattening over my hip like it’s instinct. His other hand, the one wrapped in gauze, brushes the side of my arm, careful but still Beckett-level possessive. Like he can’t help it. Like even hurting, he needs to hold me.
“Should you be doing that with a busted arm?” I tease.
