Taking What's Needed

Veyra POV

He doesn’t move like I expect him to.

There’s no wild snarl, no rip of fabric, no hands dragging me down into the dirt. Just a pause. A slow exhale. One of his hands brushes against my waist, then stills as if he’s giving me a chance to change my mind. When I don’t, his fingers drift toward the hem of my shirt, curling beneath it with deliberate care.

The fabric is stiff with dried sweat and blood. It clings to me in places, but he’s patient, peeling it upward, inch by inch, until my stomach is bare. My skin prickles under the touch of air, but it’s his silence that unsettles me more.

He’s not grinning or gloating. He’s looking at me like I’m something fragile. Something breakable.

My voice is rough, wary. “You’re not doing this like a rogue.”

He doesn’t answer. Just eases the shirt higher, over my ribs, past my bruised arms. I wince when he lifts it off my head, and his touch softens instantly, like he noticed. Like he cared. He folds the ruined shirt and sets it aside, as