It was the first time I’d seen his bare thighs. During our previous encounters, Diem had ensured they’d stayed hidden.Beneath the jeans, I’d found dense, artistic tattoos. They covered dozens of long thin scars, ones that seemed self-inflicted.

After what Kitty had shared, I knew them for what they were. Diem’s body was a battlefield. He’d fought a war against a merciless foe, and I suspected the war wasn’t over. Perhaps it had shifted and changed, but he still wore the cloak of an active victim. The silver scars on his thighs, although faded and disguised under ink, told a story all on their own. Diem was not fully healed. He was a man still suffering.

When the muscles throughout his body tensed further, I showed mercy and moved away, putting space between us. He couldn’t look at me, and I knew he needed permission to escape.

“You know where the bathroom is. Help yourself to a cloth. They’re in the cabinet behind the door.”

He offered a clipped nod, bent to hike his pants, and got out of there like his ass was on fire.

If he’d suffered abuse as a child, the scars made sense. What I couldn’t figure out was his inability to physically connect. To touch. Be intimate. It was like he didn’t know how.Hadn’t learned? Never experienced positive touch?

I could have pondered for hours, but it threatened to reignite my migraine, so I let it go and found clothes to dress.

Diem didn’t return to the bedroom.

I found designer jeans and a nice shirt before spending another ten minutes in the bathroom, fixing my hair and bringing myself back to life after two days in bed. I took a final migraine pill to be sure it stayed away. I probably shouldn’t be going out, but I’d be damned if I missed the action.

When I finished, I found Diem pacing a strip off the living room carpet, biting his nails, and likely craving a cigarette or drink. The man had tells.

At least he hadn’t run out the door.

“Ready?” I asked, steering clear of mentioning our recent activities. With Diem, avoidance worked best.

He nodded—no eye contact—then moved to the door, escaping into the hallway the second his shoes were on.

I had a feeling it would be a silent ride to the university.

***

York campus was not as busy as it would have been during the fall and winter semesters. At most, a few hundred students participated in summer courses, catching up or trying to get ahead. It was midafternoon, and the outdoor areas were occupied by several groups of young adults enjoying the sun. A lot of skin on display. Tank tops. Shorts that rode high up thighs. Shirts showed off tanned bellies—we hadn’t had enough sun to produce those results, so they must have been artificial.

The temperature had risen in the two days I’d been stuck in bed. According to the Jeep’s readout, it was a balmy twenty-seven degrees that afternoon. Warm enough to shed hoodies and jackets and don summer wear. Maybe a warm front had been the cause of my migraine.

“Do you know where David Shore teaches?”

“North building.” It was the first Diem had spoken since leaving the apartment. He was no longer grinding his teeth and clamping his jaw, but he still wouldn’t look at me.

He parked, and we walked along a paved path toward the north end of campus, catching the attention of a few students. Diem kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders near his ears, face set in a scowl, and gaze on the ground. He was without his trusty trench coat and hat for once—it was much too warm. Maybe he felt exposed with so many eyes on him. God knows he hated attention. However, I was more apt to believe his discomfort was a residual effect of earlier activities.

Diem was still processing.

I let him. No sense poking an infected wound.

“His office is this way.” Diem veered along a different path, one that weaved around a squat building on our right, and I followed.

“He won’t be there, will he?”

A grunt.

“D?”

“Maybe. He’s keeping office hours even though he’s suspended.”

“How do you know? Wait. Have you been here already?”

No answer.

I snagged his arm, drawing him to a halt and spinning him to face me. “Have you?”