I stop. Turn. Let my eyes pin him in place.
“Unless you’re also unconscious,” I say sharp as steel, “move. Now.”
He squeaks. Tries. Fails. But the sight of my hand tightening on Elias’s hip is enough. He scrambles up, staggering toward the showers like a newborn deer.
Good.
I don’t bother with the showers. Waste of time. Waste of heat.
The kid’s limp against my shoulder, breath shallow but steady, body wrecked from giving me everything. He doesn’t need soap. He needs walls that won’t let him fall.
I grab his Reapers jacket off the hook by the locker, shake it once, then wrap it around him. He stirs faintly, a broken sound slipping out of his throat, but his eyes stay shut. It’s end of November, the kind of cold that cuts to the bone the second you step outside. No way in hell I’m letting him freeze.
The rest of the room parts for me without a word. They watch—silent, wide-eyed—as I shoulder the door open, Elias tucked tight in my arms. Cole mutters something under his breath about me being a villain in a mob movie, but even he doesn’t push it past that. Nobody does.
The air outside hits sharp. Bitter. I ignore it. His jacket’s pulled snug around him, my hand braced at the back of his neck, his face buried against my chest like he was built to fit there. I take the lot in long strides, boots crunching against frost.
The SUV looms in the corner, black steel humming like it’s been waiting. I set him down gentle, his body sagging against the leather, then lean across and strap him in myself. Belt clicks into place, snug over his chest.
For a second, I just watch him. His lashes stick damp against his cheeks, lips parted, jacket collar high around his throat. My pup. My center. My reckless little firebrand who doesn’t know when to quit.
I shut the door, circle around, and slide behind the wheel. Engine rumbles low to life, headlights cutting white through the dark. My mismatched eyes flick to him once more before I pull out.
Not his apartment this time.
Not Cole’s stupid convertible drop-off routine.
My place.
Because if he’s going to give me everything until he drops, then he’s going to collapse where I can keep him. Where he’ll wake up with my walls around him, my roof above him, my rules holding him steady.
The drive is quiet, steady. I take the long way, city lights blurring across the windshield. He stirs once, murmurs something incoherent, but never wakes. My hand stays steady on the wheel, jaw tight.
By the time I park in the underground, the decision is already made. He doesn’t get a choice. Not in this. Not in me.
Tonight, Elias Mercer sleeps in my bed.
The underground garage hums quiet, concrete echo carrying the sound of my boots as I haul him toward the elevator. Elias barely stirs, his head limp against my chest, lips parted, jacket slipping askew over his shoulders. He’s heavy in the way unconscious men are—dead weight—but I don’t notice it. He’s mine. Mine to carry. Mine to keep.
My door unlocks with a click. The apartment swallows us whole—warm, lived-in, nothing like the rookie’s bare little shoebox. This place has years in it. Leather couches broken in by bruised bodies and late-night film. Shelves lined with pucks, sticks, plaques from games long past. Jackets I outgrew years ago hang on the hooks by the door, sleevesfrayed, numbers faded. Trophies gleam dull under low light, reminders of blood earned and fights won.
This is home. Not a bed barely slept in. Not empty walls. Mine.
I don’t stop moving. Straight through the hall, into the bathroom. Warm tiles, dim light, steam curling as I turn the tap on. Tub fills slow, water hot enough to ease muscles torn to shreds.
I set him down on the edge of the porcelain. His head tips, curls falling forward. He mumbles something slurred, low, half in the world, half out.
“Wha—Cap?” His voice is rough, wrecked, like he’s drunk. Green eyes slit half-open, unfocused, but still locking on me like I’m the only anchor in the room. His mouth curves crooked. “We…home?”
“Yes.” My hands are steady, tugging his arms free from his jacket, peeling sweat-soaked layers from his skin. “Home.”
He chuckles—weak, slurred, tipsy from exhaustion alone. “Not…not my place.”
“No,” I say. Calm. Low. “Mine.”
His laugh cracks high, delirious. “Fuck. I’m…inyourbed, huh?” He giggles, shoulders shaking. “God, I’m so fucked.”
“Language,” I mutter, dragging his socks off one by one. He just grins up at me, drunk on fatigue, drunk on obedience.
