Chapter 155 Boundaries Blurred

Chapter 155 Boundaries Blurred
Charlotte: POV

Michael's ears turned an impressive shade of crimson as we pulled up to my building. "I suppose," he muttered, his gaze fixed firmly on the dashboard.

I studied his profile—the tension in his jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. Something about his discomfort sparked a mischievous impulse in me.

"You know what I think?" I said, leaning slightly closer. "I think you've never had a girlfriend."

His head whipped toward me, eyes wide. "What? That's—"

"It explains so much." I reached out, trailing my fingers along his forearm where the bandage peeked out from under his sleeve. "The blushing. The awkwardness. The way you tense up every time I get within two feet of you."

Michael jerked his arm away like I'd burned him. "Ms. Caldwell—"

"Charlotte," I corrected automatically, moving my hand to his shoulder instead. The muscle beneath my palm was rigid as stone. "Relax. I'm not going to bite."

"Please maintain appropriate boundaries," he said stiffly, but his voice had gone rough around the edges.

I laughed, pulling back. "Fine. Let's get you inside before you pass out from embarrassment."



Inside my apartment, Michael headed straight for his room, clearly hoping to escape further interrogation. But I wasn't done with him yet.

"Take off your shirt," I said, holding up the ointment tubes the doctor had given us. "Doctor's orders, remember? Twice daily application."

He paused in his doorway, back rigid. "I can manage."

"With those cracked ribs? And that shoulder?" I raised an eyebrow. "Don't be ridiculous. Sit down."

For a moment, I thought he might actually refuse. Then he sighed and moved to perch on the edge of my couch, fingers working at his shirt buttons with deliberate slowness, like he was buying time to compose himself.

I tried not to stare as he shrugged out of the fabric, but fuck, it was hard. The man was built like a goddamn sculpture—all defined muscle and smooth skin marred only by the fresh bandages and a scattering of old scars. The late afternoon light streaming through my windows cast shadows across the planes of his chest, highlighting every ridge and valley.

"Turn around," I said, my voice coming out huskier than intended.

He obeyed silently, presenting me with his back. I unscrewed the cap on the first tube, squeezing ointment onto my fingers. The cool gel warmed quickly against my skin.

The moment I touched his shoulder blade, he flinched, his entire body going rigid.

"Sorry," I murmured. "Cold?"

"It's fine." But his voice had dropped an octave, rough and strained.

I worked the ointment gently into the laceration on his shoulder blade, my fingers moving in slow, careful circles. His skin was warm beneath my touch, and I could feel the tension thrumming through him like a live wire.

He kept his breathing deliberately even，but I noticed the way his hands gripped his thighs, knuckles white.

"You need to relax," I said softly, letting my palm flatten against his back. "I can feel how tense you are."

"I'm fine," he repeated, but his voice cracked slightly on the last word.

As I moved lower, treating the wound along his ribs, I took my time, perhaps more than strictly necessary. My fingers traced the edges of the bandage, then slipped beneath to apply the ointment to the tender skin. Michael's breath hitched audibly.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, leaning closer. Close enough that my breath ghosted across his skin.

"No." The word came out strangled.

My eyes caught on an old scar near his spine, faded and silvery-white, maybe three inches long. Without thinking, I traced it with my fingertip, following its path down toward his lower back.

"Where'd you get this one?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Michael's entire body went taut, muscles bunching beneath my touch. "Afghanistan."

"And this?" My fingers found another scar, this one near his left shoulder blade. I let my touch linger, exploring the texture of the old wound.

"Same place."

I should have stopped there. Applied the ointment to the forearm wound and called it done. But something about the way he was trying so hard to maintain control made me want to push, to see what would happen if that control slipped.

My hand drifted higher, following the curve of his neck. His skin was warm, slightly damp with sweat despite the apartment's cool air. I could feel his pulse hammering beneath my touch, rapid and erratic.

My fingers traced the line of his spine, then moved to the sensitive skin just below his hairline.

"Charlotte." My name came out strangled, almost desperate. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking for more injuries," I said innocently, letting my fingers brush the sensitive skin behind his ear. My other hand remained on his lower back, thumb drawing lazy circles against his skin.

He shuddered. His breathing had gone ragged, no longer the controlled, shallow breaths.

Before I could process what was happening, Michael's hand shot up, catching my wrist in a firm grip. He turned to face me, and the intensity in his dark eyes nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. They were blazing with something raw and hungry, something that made heat pool low in my belly.

"You're done," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Thank you."

But he didn't let go of my wrist. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing.

"Michael—"

"Men and women shouldn't be this... intimate." He released my wrist like it had scalded him, but his eyes remained locked on mine. "You need to stop sending these mixed signals."

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "What if I'm not sending mixed signals? What if I'm being perfectly clear?"

His jaw clenched, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. "Then you're making a mistake."

"Maybe I like making mistakes." I leaned closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare chest.

"Charlotte—"

"I think you look familiar," I interrupted, my gaze tracing the scar above his left eyebrow. "Especially that scar. I'm sure we've met before."

Something flickered across his face—panic, maybe, or fear. He stood abruptly, putting distance between us, and I immediately felt the loss of his warmth.

"Please respect yourself," he said, his voice tight and strained. "Someone worthy of you would never be like me. You don't need to lower your standards."

Before I could respond, he grabbed his shirt and practically fled to his room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

I sat there on the couch, staring at the closed door, my fingers still tingling from where they'd touched his skin. My heart was still racing, and I could feel the flush spreading across my cheeks.

What the hell was that about?