Fighting Hearts
He pulled it up to his chest, revealing a darkening bruise running along his left side—bluish, purplish, with a yellow tinge beginning to spread at the center.
Sloane stepped closer.
She didn't touch it.
Just looked.
From two steps away, brows drawn together, serious.
"Not cracked. But deep. Could've hit the fascia.
It'll stiffen by tomorrow," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Then she walked to the small freezer, bent down, and pulled out two ice packs.
One in a rubber sleeve, the other just wrapped in a towel.
She returned to him.
"This—on your side," she said, holding out the rubber-covered pack.
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