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He’s fluctuating between overwhelming guilt at dragging her into this crazy mission and an all encompassing fear at her having been stabbed. And then she’s lifting her top and asking him to help and suddenly he can’t think anymore.
Because God, he didn’t think that the first time he helped a girl out of her shirt would be to help her bandage a stab wound. And he certainly didn’t think that the girl in question would be Kyra. But as those thoughts flitter across his mind they’re knocked out by another, more powerful one: if he tilts his head up right now, they’d almost be close enough to kiss.
“You’re not saying something, you need to not do that, not with me.”
What isn’t he saying? That he never realised she had so many freckles that lightly dust her arms and chest and he suddenly finds himself wanting to kiss each and every one of them? That the soft curve of her breasts in the tight black sports bra is the most alluring thing he’s ever seen? That he’s physically having to stop himself from reaching up to brush her hair away from her face?
Oh yeah, there’s definitely a lot he’s not saying to her.