Bastion’s jaw works. “I don’t like being told what to do. Especially about you.”
I look at him, really look, and it hits me how tired he is. Not just physically, but the kind of tired that lives in your bones. “I’m not a problem to solve,” I say, soft.
Bastion meets my eyes. “I know. But I also know what it’s like to need something and have nobody give it to you. You’re not the only one who’s desperate around here.”
That lands. Harder than I expect.
I set the coffee down, hands shaking, and pick at a fleck of paint on my thigh. “Is that why you ghosted after… you know.”
He goes still. “After what?”
I stare at him, then laugh. “Are you for real? After you kissed me and then pretended it never happened. After you looked at me like I was going to bite you if you got too close.”
Bastion doesn’t deny it. “I thought it was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then he says, “No. But I didn’t want to mess things up with the others. With the pack.”
“Too late for that,” I say, but there’s no venom in it. I don’t have the energy for venom.
Bastion stands, restless, and paces to the window. He fiddles with the latch, then gives up. “Ranier’s scared,” he says. “He’s not mad at you. He’s scared he’ll lose everything if he lets you in.”
“I don’t want to take anything from him.”
Bastion nods, then comes back and sits, this time closer. “He thinks love is a zero-sum game. But you’re proving him wrong.” Bastion looks at me with this naked, searching expression that I’ve never seen on him before. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but it sounds like a lie. Because it is. Because I wanted an unrealistic fairytale and instead gotthis: a pack with fractured feelings about me and my place here.
Bastion he leans in. “You’re still in heat.”
It’s not a question.
My face goes hot. “It’s almost done.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I asked.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. I look down and then back at him. “I’m trying to paint through it.” It sounds stupid even to me. How the hell doespaintinghelp relieve heat symptoms?
It doesn’t. It never would.
“Is it helping?” Bastion asks.
“No.” The word hangs there, heavy and desperate.
Bastion looks at my hands and then at the streaks of paint on my legs. Very much not the only liquid in the area. “Can I help?”
It takes me a second to process. “You mean?—”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but his eyes are fixed on my mouth. “It’s not like we haven’t already crossed that line.”
I want to make a joke, but all the jokes are gone. All that’s left is the ache. The hollow in my chest and lower, and the longing that never really goes away. I nod, just once, and he moves.
Bastion kneels at the edge of the nest with his good arm steadying himself on the comforter. “Tell me what you need.”
My voice comes out small, but clear. “Just… don’t leave.”
He reaches out and wipes a streak of paint from my cheek. His hand is warm and a little rough. “Not going anywhere.”
