Barr sat on a stool and rubbed his eyes. His hair, his eyebrows, the little goatee with the flecks of silver—they all looked about ten times bushier tonight, like he’d gotten caught in a static cloud. Then he sighed and started asking questions.

Eventually Reck came back, without North, and he asked a few questions too, and then Barr left, and it was just Shaw and Reck, and there was something about the dark sandstone of his features—the bristle of gelled hair, the honey-dark eyes, the way it looked like someone had coordinated his coloring so he could go undercover with a gang of surfers, or something ridiculous like that—that made Shaw’s skin prickle when it was just the two of them alone. Or maybe it was just the way Reck’s tight, white shirt picked out every ridge and ripple in the hard lines of his chest and abdomen.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, Reck poised at the curtain like he was standing guard in case North tried to come back. Then Reck crossed the room in two sharp clicks of his heels, and his big hands—an athlete’s hands, Shaw thought—came up, and he rumbled, “May I?”

Shaw tried to swallow. He settled for a fractional nod.

Reck cupped his jaw with one hand, the touch barely more than a brush of skin, and his other hand combed the long hair back from Shaw’s face. The rasp of Reck’s hand along Shaw’s skin, the gentle tug of his fingers through the thick hair, they put a hot point in Shaw’s belly that confused him, made him feel slightly sick. Then Reck tugged a couple times, doing something Shaw couldn’t see, and stepped away. The hair stayed up and back in a loose bun; Shaw reached back, testing.

“You carry scrunchies?”

“When I got the call, I thought you might need one.” Then those fine lines crinkled around Reck’s eyes. “I have four younger sisters, and I think any of them would kill for your hair.”

He was still standing too close. The sporty cologne jangled in Shaw’s nose, and that hot point in his stomach had gotten worse, making Shaw dizzy.

“Shit night,” Reck said. “And totally inappropriate, and you’ve been through hell, and I’m probably the last person you ever want to see again.” Shrugging, he caught Shaw’s hand. His touch wasn’t as gentle as North’s, but there was something about the bump, the force, the casual roughness as he jostled the cuts on Shaw’s arm that sent wildfire rushing into Shaw’s face. Then Reck pressed something into Shaw’s hand. “I hope you’ll call me, though.”

“If I need something?”

Another shrug of those massive shoulders. “I just hope you’ll call.”

Then Barr came back, and the curtain rings rattled along the rod, and the crinkles deepened around Reck’s eyes for a moment before they vanished.

Sometime later, North pushed through the curtain like he was fully capable of—and intended to—kick down a wall if it got in his way. He had his arms full, and he elbowed a stand of pamphlets on deep vein thrombosis off the countertop and sent them scattering across the floor. He had a split lip; that was new since Reck had forced North out of the room.