**Feelings**

The bathroom door opened, and he stepped out, tugging a white shirt over his shoulders, his hands moving in that casual, almost lazy way that somehow managed to look effortlessly put-together. I cleared my throat, quickly standing up and slipping off the bed, trying not to stare at the way the shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, or the bandages peeking out from underneath. For someone recovering from gunshot wounds, he didn’t look the least bit fragile. In fact, in ...