"I have a game tomorrow. If anyone sees you here—"
"No one's going to see me."
He turned to look at me. In the dim light his face was all shadows and sharp edges.
"The rink was an accident," I said. "Being here isn't. Milo had concerts all over the country. I picked Salt Lake."
Red went still.
"I told myself I wasn't going to do anything about it. I was going to sit in the audience and fly back to Colorado, and that would be the end of it." I was watching my own hands in my lap, the way my fingers had laced together. "And then he hit me, and I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."
"So I'm what? Your backup plan?"
"No. You're the only thing I've wanted for three months. I just didn't think I was allowed to have it."
His breath caught. His throat worked as he swallowed.
"Get inside," he said. "Before I change my mind."
The apartment was small and dark and smelled like him. I stood just inside the door and breathed it in while he locked up behind us.
He didn't turn on the lights.
"This doesn't change anything," he said to the door. "I'm still angry at you."
“Then be angry. I didn’t ask you not to be.”
He turned around and stopped. His eyes went to my cheek, and his whole body shifted, the tension draining out of his shoulders.
"Joel." His voice had changed. "Jesus. Look at your face."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." He crossed the room and stopped in front of me, close enough that warmth radiated off his body. His hand came up and his thumb brushed the edge of the bruise.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
"Sorry." He pulled his hand away. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." I caught his wrist and brought his hand back to my face. "No. Don't stop."
His thumb traced the edge of the swelling, and I closed my eyes because I couldn't keep them open, because no one had ever touched me like this. Milo's hand had been a fist. Red'swas open, careful, mapping the damage like he wanted to understand it.
He kissed me.
The kiss was nothing like before, nothing like teeth and anger and the sharp edge of wanting. His mouth was soft against mine, and his hands were still holding my face like I was something fragile, something worth being careful with.
I kissed him back and my hands found his waist, his hips. I pulled him closer and bit his lower lip, not hard, just enough to feel him shiver. He made a sound against my mouth and I soothed it with my tongue, licking where I'd bitten.
This I could learn. Bite, then kiss it better. Take, then give back.
His mouth moved against mine, unhurried, and I matched his pace. My hands slid under his shirt and up his spine, feeling the muscles shift under his skin. He arched into the touch, and I scraped my nails down his back, light enough to tease, then pressed my palms flat and pulled him against me.
"Bedroom," he said against my mouth. "Now."
He took my hand and led me down the hall.
The bedroom was small and dark. He pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the last of the streetlight, and then he was back in front of me with his hands on the buttons of my shirt.
