“You want to tell me why the fuck you’re not wearing that?” His tone is soft but deadly as he points toward the bench where my armor lies. “I have to wash it at some point.” “And you thought that would be a good idea during sparring?” His chest heaves, like he’s battling to keep control of himself. I’m just trying not to notice his chest or the heat he’s throwing off like a damned furnace. “I washed it before sparring, knowing it could dry while your guard dog keeps watch, as opposed to sleeping without it because we both know what happens behind locked doors around here.” “Not behind yours
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