He's almost seen my worst side, and somehow he is still here, after I've spent years making fun of him too.
It pisses me off. It scares the hell out of me.
And deep down, it makes me want to fall to my knees and ask him why the fuck he hasn't run yet.
I want him to leave Italy as soon as possible.
Tomorrow. Now, if possible.
Because I'm so fucking scared right now.
"Don't move," he mutters. "I should let it sting."
"Oh, baby. It always stings."
He doesn't respond.
He just presses the pad gently against my temple. But his hands are so careful, like I’m glass, and now I remember those messages Sophia sent me, her complaining about this exact thing, how Rava treated her like she was fragile, and I let out this bitter little laugh because the irony is fucking unreal.
The world doesn't appreciate shit.
People like her get something that good, and treat it like an inconvenience. God knows what he went through with her, what she twisted, what she demanded.
You poor bastard. No wonder you're tired. I didn't understand how someone could be that soft and still burn me like that.
His knee bumps mine.
His face is close now, focused, lips parted slightly. I can feel his breath. I don't breathe. He hesitates.
His eyes drop to my mouth and pause there. "There's blood," he says quietly. "On... your lip."
"Oh?" I ask.
He nods. "Yeah."
I tilt my head just a bit. "Lick it off."
His gaze snaps to mine like I'd just slapped him, and then he stands up. "I'm done. You're exhausting."
I catch his wrist before he can walk off, laughing through the ache in my ribs. "Whoa, hey. Come back. My wounds aren't healed yet."
He tries to pull away, but I tighten my grip just enough.
"Rava," I say, dragging his name out slowly. "You gonna abandon your patient? I'm gonna tell your future students about it. They won't be happy."
He looks down at me, exasperated, flushed, then sits back down with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "You're the worst."
I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes, because under all the games, all the flirting and teasing and fucking tension, we both know something has shifted.
He goes back to dabbing gently at my cheek, and I watch him, memorize him, the way he bites the inside of his lip when he concentrates, the way his fingers tremble when they get too close to my mouth.
I want to grab him, pull him in, bite his fucking lip until he moans, make him admit it.
But I know I shouldn't, not only because I am technically not allowed, but because I would definitely destroy him.
He is still close, too close.
His hand moves up without warning, fingers on my jaw, and he grips me like he's done this before, like he's allowed, like I'm something he can just hold and move, and then he tilts my face toward the light, toward him, like I'm nothing more than a goddamn object he's fixing, and I let him.
