“But I didn’t.”
“This time,” he said, but there was less fight in it. More resignation. More acceptance.
I pulled him closer, ignoring the protest from my shoulder, until his forehead rested against mine. “I’m not your dad. This isn’t the same situation.”
“I know. Logic tells me that. But the fear doesn’t care about logic.”
“I know. Maybe the fear gets a little smaller every time I come home safe.”
“Or maybe it gets bigger every time you get hurt.”
“Then we’ll deal with it.” My thumb traced circles on the back of his neck, and I felt the tension slowly drain out of him. “If you’ll let me.”
He pulled back enough to look at me. His eyes were still wet, but the set of his jaw had shifted. He looked less like he was fighting himself.
“I’m going to panic every time you get hit.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to have bad days where I can’t handle any of it.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m probably going to push you away sometimes when I get too scared.”
“Then I’ll wait. And when you’re ready, I’ll still be here.” I caught his hand where it rested on my knee. His breath hitched—barely audible, but I heard it. Felt it. “I’m not going anywhere, Tanner.”
He stared at our joined hands. His thumb brushed across my knuckles once—so light it could have been accidental. It wasn’t.
“The ice is probably thawed by now,” he said.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
The apartment pressed in around us—too quiet, too dark, too heavy with everything we weren’t saying. I could feel his pulse in his fingertips where they pressed against my skin, quick and unsteady.
His thumb traced another slow circle across my knuckles. I don’t think he knew he was doing it. Or maybe he did and couldn’t stop himself.
“Tanner.” His name came out rougher than I had intended.
His breath caught. His eyes dropped to my mouth—just for a second, but long enough for us both to notice. I watched the flush creep up his neck as he tried to look away and couldn’t quite manage it.
The space between us shrank. I wasn’t sure who moved first—maybe both of us, maybe neither.
Then he stood abruptly, taking the soggy ice pack with him.
“You need heat now,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “And sleep. You’re exhausted.”
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Okay.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. I heard him moving around—running water, opening cabinets—and tried to get my breathing under control. Tried to remember that he’d asked for space. That wanting more was selfish when he was barely holding himself together.
When he came back, he had a heating pad and two bottles of water. His cheeks were flushed.
“Twenty minutes with this, then bed.” He settled beside me again. Closer than before. Close enough that I could smell his shampoo, something clean and familiar that made my chest ache. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
