BETTYRhys hesitates, then finally sits down like a kid on the verge of a tantrum, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the floor.I move closer, and for the first time since everything erupted upstairs, I finally have a full view of him.The vest he’s wearing clings to him like a second skin, his muscles taut beneath the thin cotton, his abs pressing faintly against the fabric every time he breathes.His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his socks are mismatched—white and slightly frayed at the edges, shoved into old house slippers.His hair is an artful mess, a chaos that somehow works on him, and even from where I stand, I can smell the faint trail of his cologne, clean, musky, something dark and masculine.It’s unfair, I think, that someone can look like that after almost getting into a brawl.I clear my throat, shaking off the thought, and pour disinfectant on a cotton pad. “Hold still,” I mutter, stepping into his space.The air changes instantly, every nerve in my body going sharp, as h
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