Page 78 of Zorro

This wasn’t the kind of love that waited until you were whole.

This was Mateo “Zorro” Martinez’s kind of love, the kind that found her wrecked, sifted through the rubble, and saw past all her bullshit to the damaged heart still beating beneath it.

How the hell was she supposed to breathe around a man like that?

How was she supposed to be the woman he saw when he looked at her?

12

She watched him sleep. Atlas at rest. Not the myth, the man. His face softened in sleep, the weight of the world momentarily shrugged from those broad, beautiful shoulders. She reached out, unable to help herself, and brushed her fingertips over the sharp edge of his jaw. “Atlas,” she whispered.

He stirred, letting out that soft, male noise she was quickly growing addicted to, a sound she never knew she needed until it threaded into her bloodstream like comfort. He turned his face into her palm, seeking more.

“What does that mean?” he mumbled, not opening his eyes, voice rough and intimate.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to the stubble along his cheek. He smelled like heat and soap and something warm that lived beneath his skin. “You’re always trying to hold up the world,” she murmured. “Mr. Fix-it.”

One of his eyes opened, slow and heavy-lidded. Brown. Warm. The kind of color that wasn’t just the color of molasses, it was molasses stirred with sunlight. It thickened her blood, slowed her breath. Made her ache in a place that had stayed untouched for far too long.

She hadn’t once, not in her entire marriage, shared a moment like this with Rob. But with Zorro, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like breathing.

Again. How had she lived without it?

Her chest tightened. Her fingers feathered against his skin.

That whisper of fear, small but sharp, wormed its way in. This wasn’t just heat. This wasn’t just laughter and teasing. This was something real. Real meant risk. Real meant the possibility of loss, and she’d survived that once. She didn’t know if she could again.

“You don’t have to hold up my world,” she said quietly, her voice thinner than she intended. “But it feels good that you want to.”

His other eye opened now, both trained on her with steady, liquid affection. “I can balance a beach ball on my nose, Doc. Holding up the world’s light work compared to carrying you.”

She huffed a startled laugh and jabbed her fingers into his side.

The reaction was immediate and golden.

Mateo Martinez, a man who had taken enemy fire without flinching, delivered a baby in a combat zone, and carried wounded men through monsoon rain, let out a sharp, involuntary giggle. A giggle. It was glorious.

Her eyes went wide. “No. No way.” She jabbed again. “You’re ticklish?”

“Woman—” he growled, trying to roll away as she followed him, relentless now. “You’re poking the beast?—”

She straddled his waist, pinning him in place with her thighs. “Oh, no. This is important field research.” Her fingers dove in again, just beneath his ribs.

He bucked, laughing, helpless. “Stop…stop…this is a war crime!”

“I’m a trauma surgeon. I’m certified.”

“Certified menace,” he wheezed, grabbing her wrists and flipping her under him so fast she barely had time to squeal. Now she was pinned, staring up at him, breathless and giddy.

“Did they teach you that in BUD/S?” she panted, catching her breath as he smirked down at her.

“Absolutely,” he said, shifting slightly so their bodies aligned in the most unholy way possible. “Tickle evasion. Taught between log PT and surf torture. Right after underwater knot-tying and weapon assembly in blackout goggles.”

She grinned up at him, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “Sounds about right.”

He leaned down, his nose brushing hers. “Want to test me on those next?”

But her laugh faltered, just slightly. Beneath the teasing, beneath the burn and warmth and humor, was something else.

---