He closed his eyes, just for a second. When he opened them, the red was gone, just green and shadows. He nodded a little, and I felt something ease in my chest. I didn’t let go. I didn’t want to.
I guided him to the bed, slowly and carefully. He didn’t resist, just let me steer him. I tugged the covers down and nudged him to sit on the edge. For a second, I thought he was going to fall over, but he didn’t. He just sat there, hands in his lap, breathing like it was work.
I knelt in front of him, hands on his knees, and waited until he opened his eyes. “You want pajamas or just shorts?”
He blinked, thrown by the question. “Doesn’t matter.”
I nodded and started unbuttoning his shirt. My hands shook, but I got the buttons undone, one by one, and peeled the shirt off his shoulders. His skin was warm under my hands, and he shivered, but not from cold. Not this time.
I tossed the shirt aside and reached for his belt. He just watched me quietly. I got the belt undone, jeans unzipped, and nudged them down. He stood long enough for me to tug them off, then sat again, boneless. I sent him to the bathroom like a child but went myself as well. He still didn’t look at me, but I could see the way he was breathing, shallow and fast, like he was waiting for something to hurt.
“You want a t-shirt?” I tried to keep my voice normal, like we were just roommates and this was nothing.
He shrugged. “Whatever’s easier.”
I pulled one from the drawer and tugged it over his head, careful not to mess up his hair more than it already was. He let me, didn’t even move his arms to help, just waited until I eased the fabric down over his chest and tugged it straight. Then I knelt down, hands on his thighs, and looked up at him because I needed him to see I was still here. I wasn’t going anywhere.
His eyes finally met mine. There was so much in them it hurt to look at. Shame. Exhaustion. Something close to fear. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice so soft I almost missed it.
I shook my head. “I want to.” I waited, just in case he was going to change his mind and tell me to get lost. But he didn’t. He just let out a shaky breath, and I watched the tension bleed out of his shoulders like he’d been holding it for years.
I took his hand, lacing my fingers through his, and guided him gently to the bed. He let me pull back the covers and get him settled against the pillows, legs stretched out, the way he always sat after a game when he was too tired to move. I tucked the blanket over his lap, then curled up next to him, careful not to crowd him.
We just sat there, breathing, his hand still in mine, so warm it was almost feverish. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the way he held on. Like he needed the contact. Like he needed me.
After a while, I got up and brought him a glass of water and made him drink it. He watched me over the rim, eyes hooded, but he drank every drop. “You’re good at this,” he said finally. His voice was rough, but there was something softer under it.
I snorted. “At what?”
He shrugged, like he didn’t want to say. But I knew. Taking care of people. Making sure they didn’t fall apart. I’d learned it the hard way, but I never thought it would actually matter for someone like him.
I set the glass on the nightstand and slid back into bed, this time closer. He didn’t pull away, just let me rest my head on his shoulder. His arm came up around me, slow and careful, like he was afraid he’d break me. I let myself relax into it. Let myself pretend this was normal.
For a long time, we didn’t say anything. I could hear the way his heart thudded in his chest, the way his breathing came faster every time I moved. He was so much bigger than me, but he felt fragile under my hands.
“You want to sleep?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head. “Not yet.” I didn’t know how to react. My hands were cold, but his skin was burning under my touch, and I could feel the way his body vibrated with exhaustion and something else. I wanted to ask if he wanted to talk about it, if he wanted me to hold him or just stay close enough that he could remember he wasn’t alone, but the words wouldn’t come. Not when his heart was beating so loud under my ear it felt like it was trying to tell me something only I could hear.
I slid my hand up his chest slowly, careful not to startle him. He let me. His breathing was shallow, not quite panic, but the kind of fear that comes after everything else—the kind you can’t really put a name to, because it’s just how you are, every single day. He didn’t look at me, not at first, but when he finally did, his eyes were so dark I thought I might drown in them. I wanted to tell him it was okay. That I wasn’t going anywhere. That I was here, and he could let go if he needed to.
But I didn’t. I just curled closer, twisting so I could press my face into the crook of his shoulder. I could smell sweat and soap and something underneath, a heat that was more than just skin. I wanted to crawl inside it. I wanted to fix the ache in him, even if I didn’t know how.
He shifted, so careful, fingers gentle on my hip like he was afraid I’d break. I wasn’t going to. Not now. Not with him.
“You sure you’re up for this?” His voice was so soft it made my chest ache.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. It was stupid, maybe, wanting him this much when everything in my life said I shouldn’t. But I did.
He rolled onto his side, caging me in with his arms. I let him. I wanted to be held down, anchored. Safe. He kissed me, slow and deep, and I opened for him without even thinking. My whole body felt like it was strung too tight, all nerves and want. He tasted like toothpaste and something heavier, something that made me want to bite and never let go.
His hands were everywhere. He didn’t rush. Didn’t force. Just traced every bruise and scar like he needed to know them, like he wanted to memorize exactly where I hurt. When his fingers drifted over my ribs I gasped, but he just kissed me again, softer, like an apology.
He pulled my shirt off, tossed it aside, and ran his palm over my side. I shivered. Not from cold. Never from cold, not with him. He didn’t even seem to notice his own state of undress, but I did. I noticed the way his muscles moved under his skin, the way his thighs caged me in, the way his cock pressed hard and hot against my hip. I wanted to touch him everywhere, but I didn’t want to break the spell, so I just let him touch me first.
He was so gentle, it nearly killed me. I’d never been handled like this, never been savored. He took his time. Every touch was careful, reverent. Like he was memorizing every inch of skin, every bruise, every dent where someone else had left a mark. I was used to rough hands and cold sheets. Cole’s hands were hot, deliberate. He ran his palms over my chest slowly, and for a second, I wanted to squirm away, make a joke, anything to break the pressure building under my skin. But he didn’t let me. He just kept touching, like he had all the time in the world.
I reached out and touched his face, just because I could. He caught my wrist gently and kissed the inside, right where my pulse hammered. It was so stupid, how much it mattered. How much I wanted to be good for him, even if I had no idea what that looked like.
