His throat worked, and a slight tremor moved through his shoulders. "Of course. I'll show you to the master suite, then."
He led me through his house, and I followed with my cane marking time against the hardwood. At the service elevator tucked behind the main staircase, he pressed the button without comment. Of course he had one. And of course he knew better than to make me climb stairs at the end of a day like this.
The master bedroom was impersonal, just like the rest of the house. High ceilings, neutral colors, furniture that looked like it had been selected from a catalog. The king-size bed dominated the space.
"Which side do you prefer?" Maxime asked.
"Which side do you sleep on?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "I... the left. Usually. But I can—"
"Then I'll take the right."
He nodded, but he didn't move. His hands hung at his sides, opening and closing on nothing. I recognized the pattern from years of watching him work: Maxime needed a task. Without one, he was adrift.
"I should get you something to sleep in," he said. "I have—"
"Maxime."
He stopped again, and this time I crossed the room to stand in front of him. I was close enough to see his pulse jumping at his throat, close enough to smell the lingering scent of his shampoo beneath the day's accumulation of sweat and stress.
"Stop."
His eyes met mine, and I saw it clearly: the fear, yes, but something else beneath it. Want that he didn't know how to express without a command to follow, need that had no outlet when there was nothing to do.
I reached up and removed the paper crown from his head, setting it on the nightstand. His hair was mussed where the cardboard had pressed against it, silver strands catching the low light.
"Get ready for bed," I said. "Whatever you normally do. I'll use the bathroom after you."
Structure. Something he could follow. The relief that flickered across his face was almost painful to witness.
He disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard water running. I removed my jacket and draped it over a chair. Then my shoes and my belt.
When Maxime emerged, he wore loose cotton pants and nothing else. The bruises from Xander's beating had darkened further, spreading across his ribs in watercolor purples and greens. His chest was pale, sparse dark hair scattered across skin I'd touched in other contexts, for other purposes.
He stood in the doorway, waiting.
"Which drawer?" I asked.
"For?"
"Something I can sleep in."
"Oh." He moved to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a pair of gray sweatpants and a white undershirt. He held them out to me without meeting my eyes.
I took them. My fingers brushed his, and he flinched like I'd burned him.
The bathroom was clean, organized, every product aligned at right angles. I changed quickly, folding my clothes out of habit, and when I returned to the bedroom, Maxime was already in bed. On the left side. Lying rigid, staring at the ceiling.
I turned off the overhead light, leaving only the lamp on my side. The mattress dipped as I lowered myself onto it, my hip protesting the movement. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"You can breathe," I said.
He let out a shaky exhale.
The space between us was perhaps eighteen inches, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body and hear each controlled breath he took, but not close enough to touch without intention.
I turned onto my side, facing him. He lay frozen, his profile sharp in the dim light, and I studied the architecture of his face:the blade of his nose, the set of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheek.
