She gets distracted

"That lying little vixen!" Diana pushes away from the desk heading to her door with obvious intent. "Let's go speak with Miss Newton, I want to see what she's wearing to bed now." You too would like confirmation of your theory, but as much as you'd like to confront Rose about her lies, you don't want to tip her off. You get between Diana and the door holding it shut with your hand so you can say your piece.

"Diana, wait." She glares at you, but takes her hand off the doorknob. "If Miss Newton was lying to us about Chanel, she was probably lying about the gift too, right?" Diana nods slowly. "She strikes me as being pretty sharp and not likely to crack under pressure." Diana's slender shoulders shrug in acknowledgement and you finish before your mind drifts off topic. "I say we wait until the girls are out of their rooms and I try to find whatever it was that sent Chanel into that panic."

"I don't know ab-" Diana stops mid-word and her hand reaches out to touch your exposed ribs. The shrapnel from the IED tore up through your right side just under your body armor, a couple inches deeper and you wouldn't be here to deal with this bullshit. As it turns out, the damage to your torso was minor compared to what it did to your leg, but it did tear the hell out of the tissue around your ribs under your right arm. The jagged white scars looked much worse that they were, but Diana didn't know that. Her fingertips trace the scar-tissue softly and although she might not have meant the gesture to be sexual, you feel an electric jolt shoot through your frame. Diana jerks her fingers away almost as if she felt the same electric shock.

"I'm sorry, I d-didn't know." The once stern administrator is stammering like one of her schoolgirls. "Does it hurt?"

"It's not nearly as bad as it looks." You drop your arm back down to cover the worst of the damage, hoping that she doesn't notice how tightly puckered your nipple is or hear the ragged edge to your voice.

"Jesus, Kyle, I don't know what to say." Diana's voice drops to a whisper and as her eyes run across your bare chest with renewed interest focusing on the puckered hole by your left shoulder. Another of your souvenirs, this one from Iraq. More than ever you regret not putting on a shirt before leaving your room, the way her eyes widen when she sees your old war wounds feels as erotic as Monica's caresses.

"I should go Diana," you barely manage to get out. "We can talk about this in the morning." You wait for her to say something, to touch you again, to do anything that would keep you from leaving.