He reached out like he might touch her face, then stopped himself.
“I’m trying,” he said softly. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”
It wasn’t enough.
But nothing about this situation was what she’d hoped for.
“I should go back to bed,” she said, setting the empty cup down. “Can you stand?” he asked.
“I’m not an invalid,” she muttered.
But when she tried to get up, her legs were unsteady and her head spun.
Carter caught her instantly, one arm around her waist, the other steadying her shoulder, and suddenly they were pressed together, her hands flat against his bare chest, his face inches from hers.
Time stopped.
She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, rapid and unsteady. She could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow. She could smell his cologne—cedar and something warm and distinctly him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there.
“Natalie,” he said, and his voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.
She should pull away. She should put distance between them. She should not be noticing the way his thumb was drawing unconscious circles on her waist.
“I should—” she began.
“Stay,” he finished.
So she did.
They stood in the bathroom doorway, barely breathing, balanced on the knife‑edge between past and future.
Then Carter’s phone buzzed from somewhere in his bedroom. Loud. Insistent. Oblivious to the moment it was destroying.
They broke apart like they’d been shocked.
“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That might be Tokyo.”
“It’s fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the apartment’s perfect temperature. “Go.”
He hesitated.
“If you need anything—”
