Stitches and Steam

**Chapter 1: A Healing Touch**

Hanna stood under the cascading warmth of the shower, the steam curling around her like a lover’s caress. The hot water stung the fresh stitches on her forearm, a reminder of the clumsy mishap with a kitchen knife two days ago. She tilted her head back, letting the droplets dance over her face, washing away the lingering tension of the week. Sunday at 11 a.m. felt like a stolen moment of peace, but her mind was already racing—Adam would be here soon.

Stepping out, she wrapped a towel around her toned frame, her reflection in the fogged mirror showing a woman who didn’t take shit from anyone. She dried off with purpose, slipping into a fitted black tank top and jeans that hugged her curves just right. The bandage on her arm peeked out, a stark white against her skin, and she smirked at it. 'Battle scar,' she muttered to herself, knowing Adam would have something to say about her carelessness.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Adam: *On my way. Don’t make me wait, princess.*

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the grin. 'Princess, my ass,' she typed back. *Hurry up, doc. I’ve got places to be.*

Hanna paced to the window of her apartment, peering out at the quiet street. Her car was still parked at the hospital lot after the late-night ER visit, and Adam, ever the overprotective bastard, insisted on driving her to retrieve it. Not that she minded. There was something about the way he looked at her—like he could stitch up more than just her wounds—that made her pulse quicken.

A sleek black sedan pulled up, and there he was. Adam stepped out, all sharp lines in his tailored jacket, his dark hair slightly tousled from the morning rounds at the hospital. He didn’t just walk; he prowled, and Hanna felt a heat bloom in her chest as she watched him. He opened the passenger door with a flourish, leaning against the frame with a smirk that could melt steel.

'Your chariot awaits, m’lady,' he called out as she descended the steps, her boots clicking with authority.

'Oh, spare me the knight-in-shining-armor crap,' she shot back, but her lips twitched with amusement. 'I’m not some damsel, Adam.'

'Never said you were,' he replied, his voice low, teasing. 'But I do like playing the hero. Now get in before I have to carry you.'

She slid into the seat, her thigh brushing against the leather, and he shut the door with a deliberate click. As he rounded to the driver’s side, she caught the scent of his cologne—woodsy, sharp, and entirely too distracting. He slid in beside her, his presence filling the car like a storm about to break.

'Let me see that arm,' he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode, though his eyes lingered on her a little too long.

Hanna held out her forearm with a mock sigh. 'Fine, but don’t start lecturing me again. I’ve heard the ‘be careful with knives’ speech twice already.'

He chuckled, his fingers brushing her skin as he gently peeled back the edge of the bandage. His touch was clinical but electric, sending a jolt straight through her. 'Looks clean,' he murmured, his breath warm against her arm. 'No infection. You’re lucky I’m damn good with a needle.'

'Lucky, huh?' she quipped, leaning closer, her voice dripping with challenge. 'Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to have your hands on me.'

His eyes snapped up to hers, dark and dangerous, a smirk playing on his lips. 'Careful, Hanna. Keep talking like that, and I might have to check more than just your stitches.'

Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. 'Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me if you tried.'

Adam’s hand lingered on her arm, his thumb tracing a slow circle that made her breath hitch. 'Try me,' he growled, his voice a promise wrapped in velvet. The air between them crackled, charged with something raw and hungry. She could feel the heat of him, the way his gaze pinned her in place, and damn if it didn’t make her wet just thinking about what those hands could do.

Their faces were inches apart now, the hospital forgotten, the car a cocoon of unspoken desire. Her heart pounded, and she knew he could hear it. 'You’re playing a dangerous game, doc,' she whispered, her lips curling into a wicked smile.

'Good,' he shot back, his hand sliding up her arm to grip her shoulder, pulling her closer. 'I like danger.'

And just as their lips were about to crash, the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the promise of something explosive—something hard, desperate, and dripping with need—waiting to ignite.