“Pup,” I mutter, smirk curling across the scar at my lip, “you can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I can too,” he insists, head lolling against the edge of the tub. He tries to sit taller, fails, sinks lower with a splash. His voice drops to a whine, softer, filthier. “’M awake. Awake enough. Could…could take you right here. Captain bath-time special.”
His words crack into another laugh, a high, broken sound, and then he sighs like the effort of talking wore him out. His hand drifts under the water, sloppy, but he doesn’t make it far before I catch his wrist.
“Enough,” I say, grip firm, pressing his hand back to his thigh. “Food. Sleep. That’s all you’re getting tonight.”
“’M still hungry,” he mutters. “For both.”
“You’ll live,” I rasp, wringing the cloth out over his stomach. “Barely.”
He snickers at that—wrecked, small, almost sweet—and tips his head back like he’s given up the fight, letting me finish what I started.
By the time I’ve rinsed the last of the sweat from his hair, Elias is half-gone again. His head tips back against the tub,mouth parted, eyes closed, breathing steady like the heat has melted every bone in him.
I drain the water, haul him up out of it. He stirs, makes a noise low in his throat, but doesn’t fight. He just folds into me, wet and heavy, arms limp at his sides. I wrap a towel around him, dry him slow, methodical. My hands drag over ribs, arms, thighs until his skin is flushed warm again.
When he’s steady enough to stand, I dig into the closet for an old pair of sweats—black, worn soft, waistband frayed. Too big for him, but they’ll hold. I pull them up his legs myself, cinch the drawstring until they cling to narrow hips. “These are huge…Cap’s pants, mine now.”
“Stay awake,” I mutter, tugging the hem down.
He doesn’t. Not really. His head lolls against my chest when I scoop him up again, arms folded across my shoulder. He sighs, breath warm against my throat, and lets me carry him straight into the kitchen.
Cooking’s pointless. He’d be unconscious before the pan hit the stove. I set him down in a chair, one big hand braced at the back of his neck to keep him upright, and pull leftovers from the fridge. Meat and potatoes from last night. Enough protein to refill what he burned out on the ice.
Microwave hums. Plate clatters. I set it down in front of him and crouch, catching his glassy eyes before they shut again.
“Eat.”
He groans like a child, tries to tip sideways. My hand catches his jaw, straightens him. I press the fork into his palm anddon’t move until he stabs a bite. He chews slow, miserable, muttering around his mouthful.
“Sadist.”
“Correct,” I murmur again, pushing the plate closer.
He eats. Sloppy, half-asleep, but he does it. Bite after bite until the plate is scraped clean. My pup, even drunk on exhaustion, obeys.
When the last fork clatters, his head drops to the table, cheek pressed against the wood, breath evening out before I’ve even pulled the plate away.
He’s limp as I lift him from the chair, head lolling into the crook of my neck. One arm dangles over my shoulder, curls sticking damp to his temple, mouth slack with exhaustion. He should be out cold.
Should be.
But the second I lower him onto the bed—my bed, heavy sheets, pillows worn in by years—he stirs. A mumble slips out, slurred and low, the kind of wrecked sound that means his brain is still running even if his body’s gone.
“…fuckin’…Cap’s bed…knew it’d smell like blood and soap and…god, so good…”
My jaw tightens. I pull the blanket over him, tugging it to his chest. His hand fists the fabric immediately, knuckles white, as if I might rip it away. His lashes flutter, mouth crooks into a grin.
“…poster over my bed was good but…this? better. way better. warm. heavy. you’re heavy, Cap. love it when you crush me. can’t breathe—don’t wanna breathe…”
“Elias,” I warn.
He doesn’t stop. Too far gone. Too delirious to censor. His head rolls against the pillow, his laugh cracked and drunk.
“…’m such a mess for you. Bet you knew, huh? Knew before I opened my mouth. knew when I chirped you in juniors highlights. knew I’d crawl. Knew I’d beg. fuck, Ilovebegging…”
My hand fists tight in the blanket at his chest, keeping him pinned when he tries to roll toward me. My blood burns hotter with every word he spills.
