Tom stumbled inside, breath hitching, blood glinting dark on his jaw—but even wrecked and half-broken, he still managed that wicked, knowing grin. He braced a hand against the wall, chest rising hard beneath his torn shirt, and his eyes dragged over me with slow, deliberate heat. “You should see the look you’re giving me,” he murmured, voice roughened by pain and something far more dangerous. “Like you’re torn between yelling at me and… something else.” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him curled around my skin, close enough that I could smell sweat, metal, and the faint trace of his cologne. “Careful,” he whispered, leaning in until his lips nearly brushed my jaw. “If you keep staring at me like that, I might forget we’re supposed to hate each other.” His fingers brushed my waist as he passed, an infuriating, electric touch. “Go on,” he added over his shoulder, voice dripping with heat, “tell me you don’t want to help me out of this shirt.”