EMILY I don't remember how we got to the bedroom. One moment we were on the couch with my hand in his hair and the ice pack dripping onto the floor, and the next we were moving through the dark apartment, his mouth on my throat, my back hitting the wall beside the hallway, his good hand sliding under my shirt and his injured arm held carefully at his side because even now, even when he's kissing me like I'm the only source of oxygen in the room, he's protecting the shoulder he threw in front of a car for my daughter. "You need to tell me if I hurt you," I say against his mouth. "You're not going to hurt me." "Your shoulder—" "Is fine." "You have stitches." "I've had worse." He walks me backward through the bedroom door. "I don't care about the shoulder. I don't care about the stitches. I care about you, right now, in this room, telling me you want this." "I want this." "Then stop worrying about my shoulder." I pull his shirt over his head. The bandages wrap around
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