“I like what I know.” His voice is quiet, certain. “And I want to know more. All of it.”
“You don't understand.” I pull back slightly, and his hand falls from my knee. “I'm a mess. I have boxes I haven't unpacked in months. I work too much. I overthink everything. I'm not the kind of woman men like you end up with.”
“Men like me?”
“Rich. Successful. Looking like that.” I gesture at him. “You're the jackpot, Kai. Men like you date models. Actresses. Women who look perfect on magazine covers.” My voice drops. “Not marketing analysts with trust issues and a studio apartment. I can't be your temporary fun. My heart can't take it.”
He sets his tea down and shifts closer, ignoring the wince that crosses his face. “You think that's what this is? Temporary fun?”
“I don't know what this is.”
“I don't want anyone else. I want you.”
“You say that now?—“
“I mean it now. I'll mean it tomorrow.” He cups my face with his bruised hand. “Emma, I've spent my whole life around people who perform. Who calculate every word, every gesture. You're not like them. When you look at me, I don't have to wonder what you're really thinking. I can just be.”
I search his face for the lie, the manipulation, the angle. All the things James taught me to look for.
All I find is Kai, bruised and honest, looking at me like I'm something precious.
“I'm scared,” I admit.
“I know.”
“I don't want to get hurt again.”
“I know that too.”
He doesn't promise he won't hurt me. Doesn't make declarations he can't keep. He just sits there, letting me see him, giving me space to feel whatever I'm feeling.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us. His hand is cupping my face, gentle despite the raw knuckles, and I'm leaning into him, careful of his injuries, and his forehead presses against mine.
“We can go slow,” he murmurs. “As slow as you need.”
“I don't know what I need.”
“That's okay.” His breath is warm against my lips. “We'll figure it out together.”
He doesn't kiss me. Doesn't push for more. Just holds me close enough to feel his heartbeat, close enough to smell ginger and lemon in our mingled breath. My skin feels tender and tight, but I don't move away.
When he finally pulls back, exhaustion is winning over him.
“You need sleep,” I say.
“I should go.”
“You can barely walk.” I stand before I can second-guess myself. “Stay. Take the couch.”
“Emma, I don't want to impose?—“
“You're not imposing.” I pull the spare blanket from the closet. “Doctor's orders.”
He huffs a laugh. “Love this bossy Emma.”
“I patched you up. Can’t have my hard work going to waste.”
I hand him the blanket and pillow. He takes them with a look that makes my chest ache. Like he's not used to being taken care of. Like this small kindness is more than he expected.
