Page 115 of Eternal
His grin only widens. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides…” He wipes his mouth with his tongue, eyes glinting mischievously. “I've got the ice cream. So, you’re stuck with me.”
A laugh slips out of me, and for a second, “Fine. You can stay.”
We eat in silence for a while, then Damir shifts. “It’s hot in your house,” he says, tugging at his hoodie. “Mind if I take this off?”
“Only if you’ve got a t-shirt under it. No naked you in this household.” My eyes flick over his broad shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than they should.
He catches it. “Stop checking me out,” he teases, his smirk wicked. “I might get the wrong idea.”
I lick my spoon slowly, not bothering to hide the way I glance at him. “Can’t help it.”
He looks good tonight, annoyingly so. His hair is still shaved on the sides, but it's grown out enough to be pushed back, apart from a stray piece that’s fallen against his forehead, his beard is short, more of a shadow than anything.
The tattoos creeping up his neck disappear under his sweatshirt, barely visible, but I know they’re there.
It’s not like I’ve never noticed before. But right now, in the low light, on my couch, dressed down in nothing but a sweatshirt and sweatpants, he looks...
Hot but comfortable, like this suits him as much as a weapon in his hand.
I don’t remember the last time I looked at a man and thought he was attractive, maybe because most men I’ve known weren’t the kind you stop to admire.
But he is, not that it matters. He’s my partner, and he’s been kind to me.
But again, I don’t trustkind.
But I’m too tired to think about that right now.
“You’re still checking me out, partner. Can I do the same, or are you gonna threaten me?” He smiles, faint, almost lazy, but he moves in closer to me.
“I wasn’t flirting, you creepy idiot.” I push him away, light but firm. But I’m still way too tired to fight even if it’s only games.
He doesn’t move back, instead, he looks down at my hand.
“Your hands are shaking,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, like he’s only noticing it. Then he reaches for my fingers, his touch careful.
I try to pull away, but he catches my wrist with ease, his grip firm yet careful. His touch is warmer than I expected, gentle almost.
A sharp ache flares in my side when he tugs me a little closer, and I wince before I can stop myself, the bandage is still fresh. “I should eat more sweets then,” I mutter, trying again to pull my hand back. He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he lifts my hoodie without asking. His fingers brush against my skin, more intimate than I’d like.
“Did it open again?” His voice is quieter now.
I keep my face neutral, but I feel it the moment he presses to test if I’d lie, pain stabs through my ribs, hard and unforgiving.
“No,” I say, but the tightness in my voice betrays me.
His thumb skims the edge of the bandage, slowly. For a second, I almost forget everything else, forget the pain, forget why he’s even here. It’s the feeling of his touch, warm, and healing.
“Such a pretty liar you make,” he murmurs.
I exhale sharply. “Fine. It did open again, but I stitched it up before you came in.” The words feel dragged out of me, like he’s pulling them free one by one.
His eyes harden slightly. “You did it yourself?”
I nod, our faces dangerously close, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my heart hammering in my chest. I pull the hoodie back down, attempting to shield myself, and take another bite of my ice cream, desperately trying to shift the attentionelsewhere. “Yep. Nothing too difficult. Almost fainted, though. So, thanks for the ice cream,” I say, trying to joke, but he stays focused on it.
When his fingers grazed my skin again on my cheek, I didn't pull away. Instead, I glance at him, watching his expression soften for a moment. “Be careful or I’ll lock you up in my house and feed you until you’re healed completely,” he says quietly.
