Page 118 of Reckless Hearts

Colt glares at him. “I can move a damn blanket.”

“Sure,” Maverick says, smoothing it into place anyway. “Right after you win a slap fight with gravity.”

I bite back a grin from my spot in the chair, watching them with a kind of fond exasperation. Honestly, they’re one forehead kiss away from starring in their own slow-burn romance novel.

Maverick even flattens the corner of the blanket like Colt’s a fussy toddler instead of a grumpy six-foot-two man.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, Lawson,” Maverick mutters.

“Didn’t hear you complaining the other night,” Colt fires back, but his voice cracks halfway through it, and his face goes beet red.

It’s so fast and so fierce that I snort before I can stop myself.

Colt sinks lower in the bed, looking betrayed at both of us like we’re the ones embarrassing him.

Maverick just grins, all lazy menace. “Aw, is someone blushing?”

“Shut up,” Colt growls, turning his head to the side so we can’t see how red his ears have gotten.

Maverick’s grin only widens. He leans down close, deliberately ruffling Colt’s hair until it’s sticking up wildly.

“Goddamn, you’re cute when you’re cranky,” he says, voice low and shamelessly fond.

Colt groans, dragging the blanket up over his face like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him whole.

Maverick just chuckles and pulls it gently back down, uncovering Colt’s furious, burning cheeks.

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” Maverick says, smoothing his palm across Colt’s hairline with a ridiculous amount of tenderness. “You’re my favorite thing to look at.”

Colt makes a noise that can only be described asa strangled whimper, his hand flailing half-heartedly like he wants to shove Maverick away but can’t work up the strength.

I amnothelping because I’ve pulled my hoodie up over my face like that’ll stop the full-body giggles threatening to escape.

Colt stares at the ceiling like he’s praying for divine intervention. His whole face is fire-engine red.

“You’re not gonna survive being loved properly, are you?” Maverick teases, voice soft and smug.

Colt mumbles something about “inhumane treatment” and “filing a complaint.”

Maverick just leans back with a pleased little hum.

I swear to God, this man is thriving. Absolutely thriving. On Colt’s suffering.

And honestly? I’ve never loved him more.

Thankfully, the universe must take pity on Colt because the door swings open, and in walks the doctor, chart in hand, radiating the exact energy of a man preparing for battle.

“How’s the pain?” the doctor asks, raising an eyebrow like he already knows the answer.

“Manageable,” Colt lies through his damn teeth.

The doctor doesn’t even blink. “Sure. And I’m a ballerina.”

Maverick chokes back a laugh. I don’t.

“Right,” the doctor says, flipping the page like it personally offended him. “Dislocated shoulder’s back in place. Tibia’s just bruised. But that collarbone? That’s shattered. If you want a clean heal, you’re looking at surgery.”

Colt stiffens. Maverick goes still.

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