Page 129 of Break Point
Stricken. Bare.
A white towel slung low around his hips, the sharp V of his torso, and the abs I’d never had the chance to see until now, impossible to miss.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, his voice shaking around the edges.
Panicking. Unraveling.
Steam spills from the bathroom behind him, and tiny water droplets slide down the tips of his hair onto the bare skin of his sculpted chest and the thick, vicious red scar slashing across his right shoulder.
I suck in a breath.
How did it happen?
Who hurt you like this?
His Adam’s apple bobs.
“I’ll just … grab my things, and I’ll be right out in a minute.”
I can’t make myself look away. But I have to …
“Take your time.”
I glance away, grab my pen, and open my notebook on my lap like a school lesson is about to start, giving him his privacy.
A few minutes later, which feels like an eternity, the bathroom door creaks open.
I lift my head.
Henry steps out, hair damp, face cleanly shaven and scrubbed clean. I catch a whiff of his cologne, fresh and crisp, and sohimbecause, no … I didn’t hide it. There’s no way I would’ve denied my masochistic self the high of it.
He’s wearing a plain, white, long-sleeved T-shirt and gray cotton shorts. Everything about him screams normal.
Casual.
And I feel it. The tiny, sharp sting of disappointment. The silent agreement to pretend.
Of course he covered up.
Of course it’s back to business.
Back to tape revision night, back to nodding and note-taking with a side of pretending I didn’tsee.
My chest tightens. I drop my gaze to my notebook, my throat closing around the things I’ll never say.
But then …
A movement.
A shift in the air.
The smell of him, stronger now, announcing his closeness.
I look up just in time to see him grab the hem of his T-shirt, the movement slow and intentional. He peels it over his head, muscles flexing, scar catching the low light like a jagged secret finally dragged into the open.
The shirt falls from his hands, hitting the floor with a soft, defeated sound. He stares at me, and I stare back, letting myself be consumed by the weight of the silent statement he just made.
It’s deliberate.
