The six days between the shower and the gala had been a masterclass in suffering.
The quiet, maddening suffering where every breath hurt a little and every glance from Dax felt like being slowly unraveled by someone who didn't know they were holding the thread.
Chris had survived. Barely.
He'd slept on the far edge of the mattress like it was hostile terrain, a diplomatic boundary line drawn in linen and pain. He'd kept perfectly still when Dax pressed a casual kiss to the top of his head, like that meant nothing. Like Chris wasn't on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
He'd breathed through every second his instincts screamed at him to give in, to lean closer, slide a hand along Dax's forearm, and bury himself in the warmth curling low in his lower abdomen whenever the man so much as rolled up his sleeves.
'Gods, those arms.'
