Dax's breath left him in a quiet, stunned exhale.
"You were in the bathroom," he murmured, "touching yourself because I had been there. Because my scent was still in the air."
Chris wanted to fling himself through the nearest window. "It was ONE TIME!"
"It was," Dax continued, moving closer with the unhurried grace of an alpha who had just solved a puzzle he'd been waiting months to understand, "the night I came back early from the military briefing. You said you had a headache. You avoided me for hours. You wouldn't even sit on the same couch."
"That was a coincidence," Chris lied boldly.
"No, it wasn't."
Dax leaned in until Chris felt the warmth of his breath against his cheek. "I remember hearing the shower running. I remember thinking you were tense."
His voice dropped. "I didn't know you were tense because of me."
Chris slapped his palms to his face again. "I hate everything."
"You love me," Dax corrected softly, "and your body has loved me longer than you admitted."
