[CAMI]
Zeke was told to rest, to let his stitches heal, to take his goddamn pills and not move around.
But instead, I find him pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows like he’s a restless caged wolf. Barefoot, black slacks sitting low on his hips, shirtless. The rippling muscles of his back are shamelessly on display, so are the scars. There's a glass of something dark in his hand—probably whiskey. He doesn’t turn when he hears me walk in, not even when I click the door and lock it behind me.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I say. My voice is still hoarse. A rasp dragged over gravel.
He stops mid-step. Turns.
“Bed’s boring without you in it,” he murmurs, eyes drinking in every inch of me. Then, slower, as if fighting some instinct, he walks toward me.
“You’re injured,” I tel
