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Tarley suppressed her smile and washed her hands, wiping them on a cloth. “You did?”

“Well, truthfully, I would have liked more of it, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

“Right.” She carried the water toward him. “Hands?”

He held his out. She doused them with water, handed him the cloth to dry them.

“Would you retie my bandage?” she asked.

Ollie stood and stepped a touch closer, taking the fabric bandage she’d removed to wash her hands.

A new kind of tension lingered between them. She wondered at it, fully cognizant of each of his movements, his breathing, the shift in his body as he bent over her hand. When he was done, he stepped away.

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “So? A story?”

“I think it’s your turn to talk,” she said and moved to the fire, breaking up the coals in the pit. “I’ve talked more tonight than in the whole of my life, I think.”

“Okay. Let me think about it.”

When the fire was doused, she walked into the tent, Ollie behind her. Though it was dark inside, and she was able to move based on memory. She tried not to think about lying next to him, reminding her they’d been in this tent together for nearly a week. Only this was different. He’d been fighting for his life then; now, he was decidedly better. She decided to ignore the tension, since that was the easiest, and untied her trousers, sliding them down over her hips.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking off my pants.”

He made a strangled noise.

“Do you need help with yours?”

He paused for several beats, then said, “Yes.”

“It’s dark. I mean, I won’t be able to see anything. And sleeping in your clothes isn’t a good idea anyway,” she said, babbling as she reached toward him. “Better to rely on your body heat so that if you need additional insulation, it works properly.”

He hummed.

Her hand met resistance. She wasn’t sure what she was touching and didn’t want to think about it too much. “Can you guide me?”

“Yes.” His fingers wrapped around her arm, then slid down covering her hand to pull her gently toward him.

She took another short step closer.

“Here,” he said quietly, pressing her hand to the thick fabric, which she assumed was at his waist. There was also the softness of skin against her fingertips, and she took a deep breath.

Detach,Tarley warned herself.You’re just helping.

“Can you shift your hips? Toward me,” she asked and reached with her other hand to match the one he’d placed for her.

She felt his hips, her hands framing them, his slight intake of breath as the movement taxed his ribs. She slid the fabric down and shifted to her knees at his feet. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

Instead, his hand found its way into her hair, and rather than move it, Ollie shifted his fingers slightly, his fingertips drifting into the strands. Chills from that simple caress raced down her body like the current of the river.

“Lift your leg. The right one,” she said and pulled the fabric from his body. “Now the left one.”

He complied, his hand still in her hair, his touch light, as if concerned he might hurt her, or scare her away.

She had a fleeting thought that she wouldn’t mind feeling his hand wrapped tightly in her hair, then banished the thought as strange and unhelpful. “What about your shirt?” she asked, deciding it would be helpful as well.