Page 166 of Love Me Stalk Me
Callahan.
Standing at my stove, like he lives here. At this point, maybe he does. I don't remember ever giving him a key. But clearly, he has access. And I'm more than finewith that.
The moment I step into the room, he stops what he's doing. The muscles in his back flex slightly as he moves, turning to face me and it makes me forget to breathe. He looks so natural here, standing in my kitchen like he belongs in it. Like he’s always belonged in it.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, exposing the strong, tattooed forearms that I'm definitely not staring at. His broad shoulders filling the space like he was built to stand there. The soft cotton of his t-shirt stretches across his chest.
The scent of whatever he's cooking fills the air, but it's overpowered by something else.
By him.
By his scent.
That clean, cedar-and-spice smell that's somehow so distinctly Callahan, so distinctly safe.
And then his eyes land on me, scanning me immediately, his entire focus shifting in an instant. He looks me over, like he’s assessing me for damage and cataloguing every bruise and sign of exhaustion on my body. His gaze rakes down my face, my arms, and the shadows of the fading bruises on my throat.
And just like that, I'm not thinking about the food anymore. I'm not thinking about my kitchen. I'm just thinking about him.
I barely get a word out before he's already moving toward me. "How are you feeling?"
I open my mouth, but before I can answer, his hands are already on me.
Fingers gently brushing my arm, skimming light as air over my shoulder. Tilting my chin just slightly, his thumb grazing my jaw as he angles my face up, examining the bruise along my neck. His skin is warm against mine, calloused but gentle.
His touch is so careful, so precise, and so maddeningly gentle.
Like he's afraid I'll break. Like he'd take my pain himself if he could.
"They're healing," I say softly, watching his expression.
His thumb lingers, moving back and forth gently. Then, without another word, he guides me to the couch, his palm resting solidly against the small of my back as he leads me there.
The touch is so simple, so casual. And yet, I feel it everywhere. He sits beside me, the cushions dipping beneath his weight, pulling out a small jar of salve. The scent of eucalyptus and mint wafts from the open container.
I watch him silently, the way his broad hands work the lid loose, before he dips his fingers inside, gathering just enough before bringingit to my skin.
The cool relief of it seeps in, soothing, but it's his touch that makes me shiver.
"You don't have to keep doing this," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."
"You say that a lot," he murmurs back, still concentrating on his task. His breath feathers across my skin.
"I mean it."
And then, before I can look away, before I can even think of saying something else to downplay it all, he lifts a hand, cupping my chin gently, tilting my face toward his.
"Please," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Stop saying things like that."
I swallow, hard.
"You're not a burden, Izzy," he continues, his voice so sure, so effortlessly certain. "You're worth taking care of."
Something in me shifts.
It starts small—a flutter in my chest, a tingle at the base of my spine. But then it grows, spreading through me like a slow burn, curling into every nerve ending.
My heart pounds.
