Page 60 of Flint’s Strike

She glances down at her watch, pondering for a moment, then returns her gaze to mine. “Not sayin’. That’s half the fun.”

Running through the bullpen would definitely get me noticed. But I lunge for the folder on the far edge of the conference table, ignoring the tug of the old scars across my torso, and the fresh pain along my left shoulder. That’s for later. When kissing Parker isn’t my primary objective.

She’s on her feet when I reach her office, ass braced against her desk, one boot tapping the floor. “Ninety seconds and change. Not bad.”

I kick the door shut, drop the folder on her visitor’s chair, and pull her against me. Our lips meet, and nothing else matters but this. The taste of her. The way she yields when I flick my tongue gently against her mouth. The tiny sound she tries to swallow as the kiss deepens.

Her hand slides up my back, all the way to my left shoulder. Pain sparks up to my neck, and I flinch, biting back a grunt.

Parker stills, the pressure of her fingers lifting enough I can breathe again, but not disappearing entirely. She skims them over my shirt, frowns, and takes a step back. “Turn around.”

Fuck.

“I’m fine. Old injury⁠—”

“There are holes in your shirt, Eliot. Holes that were not there this morning. Turn around.” Hands on her hips, she glares at me, and I don’t dare refuse her a damn thing.

A sigh heaves my shoulders, and I put my back to her.

She eases my collar back slightly, sucks in a sharp breath, and releases it on a huff. “What the hell happened?”

I turn to face her again. “It’s nothin’. A few embers caught me at the scene. I’ve had worse.”

Her side-eye probably breaks suspects down in record time.

“Take your shirt off. I have a first aid kit in my drawer.”

“Parker.” Her name isn’t gentle. The edge to my voice sharpens. “Drop it.”

“I ain’t askin’, Eliot. Shirt off. Now.” She’s around her desk in three steps, crouching and yanking open a drawer.

The fight drains out of me.

This is where she finds out. Right here. In six buttons, she’ll see what fire can do. In five, I’ll know if the kiss we just shared was our last. This thing between us—this thread that’s been pulling us closer for days—could snap if I reach for those last four buttons.

I don’t want to know the answer. For seven years, I haven’t let a soul outside of my doctors see the devastation. I haven’t gotten close enough to anyone for it to matter. But I let my guard down, and Parker slipped through my walls.

The last button comes undone. I ease the shirt off my shoulders, fold it once, and lay it over the back of her guest chair.

Parker braces a hand on the top of her desk as she stands, a first aid kit tucked under her arm. For a moment, she takes me in, then lifts her gaze to mine. “Turn around so I can get to work.”

I expected disgust. Fear. Uncertainty. Horror. Pity. Anything but the soft, no-nonsense tone warmed by a hint of care.

Turning, I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for her to recoil. To tell me she can’t stand touching me. But there’s only the sound of the kit sliding onto the desk, the latch opening, and the rustle of supplies.

Parker’s hands find my shoulder, and a cool antiseptic wipe skims a broken blister. The sting is muted—everything’s muted over scar tissue—and I start to relax. She works quickly, but she’s not rushing. Burn gel. Light, non-stick dressings. Medical tape to secure the edges.

All the while, I stare at the cork board on the wall. Next to the map of Austin, she’s pinned June’s calendar, a handful of Post-It notes in her neat handwriting, and a single commendation certificate hiding in the corner.

The latch snaps shut, and then her palms are resting against my shoulder blades.

Fuck. I want—need—to know what she’s thinking. Is this the end? Or is there still the possibility of us.

Her hands lift, and I turn.

She holds my gaze. Not looking at the scars. She’s looking at me.

I reach for her hand, turning it palm up, and press my lips to the inside of her wrist.