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“Great. I mean, it’s the first day. Some things went wrong, but overall, I’m very happy. Vivian’s great. We’re creating some good chemistry.”

Delaney started unbuttoning her red flannel shirt. She shrugged out of it, letting the heavy cotton drop over the back of a wooden chair. Underneath, she wore a fitted white tank top.

Claire watched her. There wasn’t any reason to stare at a woman taking off a flannel shirt in a warm kitchen, but Claire couldn’t seem to look away. She took in the line of Delaney’s throat, the pale slope of her shoulder, the lean, athletic trim of her waist. Stunt work built a habit of assessing anatomy: muscle tone, weight distribution, center of gravity. That was all this was. Professional evaluation. Anyone with eyes would notice any of those things.

Then the flannel cleared her waist, and Claire caught the dark, wet stain soaking the white cotton under her ribs on the right.

Delaney turned toward the stove, her face lighting up as she caught the scent from the oven. “That smells amazing.” Then she looked at Claire and stopped. “What is it?”

“You’re hurt.”

Claire crossed the kitchen before she could overthink it. Two long strides put her directly in Delaney’s space. The heat off Delaney’s skin hit her first, mixed with the sharp scent of cut grass, dust, and sweat.

“What?” Delaney looked down at her own side, her eyebrows pulling together.

A jagged tear split the white cotton under her ribs. Dark crimson soaked the fabric, smearing down into the waistband of her jeans.

“How did you do that?” Claire asked.

“I... I don’t know.” Delaney touched the air near her ribs, her fingers hovering.

“Adrenaline,” Claire muttered. She took Delaney by the elbow. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They moved up the narrow staircase, pine steps creaking under their weight. In the upstairs bathroom, Claire clicked on the overhead light. The yellow bulb exposed every detail: the pink flush on Delaney’s cheeks, the smudges of soil on her knuckles, the tacky blood sticking the fabric of her shirt to her skin.

“Sit on the edge of the tub,” Claire said.

She reached into the cabinet beneath the pedestal sink, pulling out the white metal first-aid box and popping the latches. When she turned back, Delaney was perched on the enamel rim of the clawfoot tub, her knees parted, dark hair falling over one shoulder.

Delaney had pinched the hem of her shirt between her fingers, hauling it up past her ribcage to inspect the cut.

Claire went entirely still.

The skin of Delaney’s stomach was smooth and pale. Just below the flare of her lower ribs, a raw, four-inch scrape oozed fresh red. Claire knew she should look at the wound. She needed to evaluate the damage, see if it needed stitches.

Instead, her eyes traced the dip of Delaney’s waist, the faint indent of her belly button, the soft skin disappearing beneath the waistband of her jeans.

“Hold it right there,” Claire said, her voice rougher than intended.

She knelt between Delaney’s knees. The bathroom was tight. With the tub on one side and the sink on the other, Claire was forced into the narrow notch of space Delaney provided. She opened a square of sterile gauze and soaked it in antiseptic from a brown bottle.

“This is going to bite.”

“I can take it,” Delaney whispered.

Claire pressed the soaked pad against the top of the cut. Delaney winced, a sharp hiss through her teeth as her fingers tightened on the rolled hem of her shirt. Her knees shifted, closing slightly around Claire’s outer thighs.

“Hold still.”

Claire wiped the blood away in smooth, deliberate strokes. Her right hand went instinctively to Delaney’s left hip, anchoring her.

It was a wrangler’s grip. Practical. You held a patient firm so they couldn’t jerk away from the sting.

Except Delaney’s hip wasn’t leather or denim. The skin beneath Claire’s palm was soft, alive, and radiating heat. A tiny shudder of breath moved under her hand. The fine muscles of her belly flexed and tightened as the antiseptic worked into the raw skin.

Claire didn’t move her hand.

Setting her palm flat against Delaney’s waist was fine. Moving it away would mean admitting there was a reason to pull back. Taking her hand off Delaney’s skin would turn an ordinary bit of first aid into a choice. So she kept her right hand planted on the swell of Delaney’s hip bone, her calloused fingers on her skin, while she set the gauze on the sink rim and worked the bandage open one-handed.