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“I’m aware.”

I crossed the kitchen slowly, because moving too fast around Evan’s pain made him mistake care for pressure.

“How bad?”

“Bruised. Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

He finally turned to face me. “Ribs.”

“Team doc checked me after the game,” he said. “Deep bruise, no fracture signs. Breathing’s fine.”

Of course.

Because apparently I had fallen for a man who treated his internal organs like replaceable parts.

Great. Perfect. Love discovering I’m emotionally invested in somebody who thinks maybe ribs qualifies as adequate medical disclosure.

I held out my hand.

“Shirt.”

His eyebrows shifted half a degree. “That’s not how foreplay usually starts.”

“Don’t flirt with me while lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are absolutely lying. You’re just doing it with good posture.”

For one second, I thought he might push.

Then he took hold of the hem and pulled the shirt over his head.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

His whole body went rigid, but that did not stop my brain from registering the movement. The lift of his arms. The shift of muscle under skin. The way the shirt dragged over his shoulders before he dropped it on the counter like it had personally offended him.

This was medical.

This was responsible.

This was also extremely unfair lighting for a medical assessment.

The bruise spread along his right ribs in ugly shades of purple and yellow, half-hidden under old scar tissue. It looked like a storm had moved through him and left evidence behind.

“Oh, my God.”

“It’s fine.”

I looked up at him. “You are a terrible person to know.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You played a full game on that.”