Page 7 of Midnight Mate
The man’s gaze darted around, taking in the room, the blood, the couch where Clint had apparently lost a prize fight to a cat before falling asleep. No sign of confusion. He just looked…tired.
“Good. You’re alive,” Clint said, voice flat. “We can skip the part where I explain why you’re naked on my floor.”
A huff of air. Almost a laugh. “Where am I?”
“Earth,” Clint replied, folding his arms. “It’s Tuesday morning. You bled everywhere, by the way.” The wolf had been a patient. The man was an unknown variable with agency and strength.
The man fought to sit up. Even with the shift and the healing, he moved slowly. The blanket slipped. Clint didn’t look away. Whoever could go human again after all that trauma probably wasn’t shy, anyway.
“Don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself.” How? Clint wasn’t sure since the guy had fully healed.
Another huff. Voice rough. “Tried to heal, but…”
He trailed off, as if waking up naked and surrounded by a triage scene was an everyday inconvenience.
Clint stared. Not the polite, doctorly kind of stare. The kind you gave to a car wreck in your own driveway. “You’re supposed to heal when you shift. Or so I’ve heard.”
The man gave him a look that could only be described as “yeah, genius.” Then he braced himself on his palms. All that muscle looked good in motion. If Clint had a body like that, he’d never wear a shirt.
Eyes locked onto him, honey-colored and sincere. “Thanks.” The word barely made it out, voice cracked from overuse or pain or god knew what. “You a vet?”
Clint’s eyebrows lifted. “You a wolf?”
The man’s mouth twitched.
“Clint,” he offered. “I’m the idiot who dragged you inside last night.”
“Bayne.” His voice had smoothed out some, less gravel and more whiskey.
“Nice to meet you, Bayne,” Clint replied. “Though next time maybe try using the front door. And maybe…clothes.” He flapped his hand around like he was brushing dust off of air.
There was a breath held too long, eyes flicking to Clint’s, then that unsure curl of his mouth like he was acknowledging the absurdity.
Grabbing the throw blanket from the floor, Clint tossed it in Bayne’s general direction, trying not to notice the way the morning light caught the planes of his chest. “Just lie still. You lost a lot of blood.”
Bayne ignored the advice, pushing himself up to sitting with a grunt that spoke of healing that went bone-deep but might not quite be complete. Muscles moved under skin in ways that made Clint’s mouth go dry. Even wincing, the man moved with a grace that suggested violence held in careful check.
The blanket pooled around his waist, which helped exactly nothing because now Clint’s brain was dealing with the V of muscle that disappeared beneath terry cloth.
A long stretch of silence followed, punctuated only by the phone vibrating on the side table and Clint’s own sense of growing awkwardness. The guy was watching him. Not watching. Studying. Taking in every exhausted detail, right down to the wrinkled scrubs and the cat hair clinging to his shirt.
Tension coiled up inside Clint, twisting somewhere low in his gut. Maybe it was just him, reading too much into the presence of a beautiful, half-naked man who’d spent the night on his floor.
The phone buzzed again.
He checked it. The Clinic.
His living room looked like a butcher shop, and he had two hours to figure out what to do with a naked shifter who may or may not have enemies looking for him. Two hours to process whatever he was feeling right now. It wasn’t enough time.
He stared at the phone then at Bayne. There was no explanation for this that wouldn’t sound completely insane. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I was playing supernatural EMT. Yeah, the patient’s fine now. Turned into a hot guy. No, I’m not having a breakdown.”
He was definitely having a breakdown.
“Seriously. I have a plumbing emergency. My whole bathroom is flooded.” The lie came out smooth, practiced from years of covering for hangovers and bad dates, though never for this. “Need to wait for the plumber. Can you reschedule my morning appointments?”
Janet’s sigh could’ve powered a small wind turbine. She launched into a lecture about responsibility and Mrs. Henderson’s poodle’s anxiety medication, but Clint barely heard it. Bayne was trying to stand, and the blanket was losing the battle with gravity.
“Gotta go,” Clint said, hanging up mid-sentence.
