Page 22 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

I made him shower first.

Call it self-preservation or habit — either way, I needed space between what had just happened and the mess of feelings crowding my ribs.

I stood outside the bathroom door, toothbrush hanging from my mouth, listening to the hiss of water and the occasional grunt as he cursed my terrible water pressure and dollar-store soap.

Bear sat next to me, tail thumping like a slow drumbeat. His nose was pressed to the crack under the door, eavesdropping like this was his favorite podcast.

When the water finally stopped, I braced myself. Forced a breath through my nose, smoothed my hair, pretended I wasn’t counting every bruise he had under the spray.

Then the door opened.

He stepped out with a towel slung low around his hips, droplets trailing down his chest. His hair was slicked back, and for the first time in weeks, he looked clean — like the jungle had been rinsed off but not forgotten.

God, he was beautiful. Not in the glossy magazine way. No, this was a survivor’s beauty — all rough edges softened by scars, haunted eyes made tender by the way he looked at me like I mattered.

“Bed,” I said, jabbing my toothbrush at him like it was a scalpel.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, limping past me with a grin and Bear trailing behind like the world’s fluffiest security detail.

I brushed my teeth and stared at my reflection. My lips were still red from that kiss in the clinic. My eyes — not angry anymore. Just tired. A little scared. And way too hopeful.

Damn him.

When I walked into the bedroom, he was half-asleep on his back, wearing the old Army T-shirt he’d left here years ago. I climbed in beside him without a word.

He rolled toward me, warm arm heavy over my waist, breath tickling my neck.

No demands. No pressure. Just here.

“You hurt?” I whispered.

He snorted. “Everywhere. Don’t care.”

“Idiot.”

“Meanest doctor in LA.”

I kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. He didn’t push for more — didn’t need to.

That was the thing about Faron Lightfoot. He’d lay down his life without blinking, and then lie beside you all night without asking for anything more than your breathing to match his.

“You staying?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate.

“’Til you kick me out.”

“Bear likes you too much for that,” I whispered.

He chuckled — low, wrecked, perfect.

Then: “Love you too, Blue.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t say it back. Not yet.

But I reached for his hand under the covers and laced our fingers together.

And for tonight, that was enough.