The tension was unbearable. I wanted to scream, to kick, to rip the mask off and show him exactly how awake I was, how much I needed him to take control. But I waited, playing the part, waiting for him to make the next move.
When it came, it was nothing like I expected.
Quiad reached out, rested his hand on my shoulder, and squeezed, slow and steady, until the knot of fear in my chest loosened just a little. Then he pulled the blanket up over my neck, tucking me in with the same care he’d use on a wounded animal.
“You’re safe,” he said, voice so low I felt it more than heard it.
The words rattled around in my head, echoing off every bad memory, every moment I’d spent running from anything that looked like comfort.
He got up, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud, and crossed to the window. I risked another peek and saw him there,arms braced against the frame, staring out at the street below like he could see all the way to the end of the world.
The sun was higher now, flooding the room with light. Dust motes danced in the air, spinning through the gold, and for a minute I forgot about the bruises, the shame, the endless urge to escape. All I wanted was to stay in that bed, under that blanket, listening to Jo’s breathing and the slow tick of the clock on the wall.
He turned, caught my eye, and I froze. But instead of calling me out, he just smiled—a small, crooked thing that made my insides melt.
“Stay in bed,” he said, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll make breakfast.”
He left the door open, let the smell of coffee and warmth drift in, and I realized I’d never been more awake in my life. I lay there, heart pounding, and wondered how long it would take before I admitted to myself that this was exactly what I’d always wanted.
The next move was mine.
Chapter Six
~ Josiah ~
The first real light of morning lanced through the window, burning the world gold and cold, and I watched it move across the valley from the balcony above my shop.
If I leaned out, I could see the river flashing silver in the tree line, but most of my attention stayed fixed inside—on the man asleep in my bed, arms curled tight around the blanket like he was trying to fuse himself into the mattress.
Bodean looked younger with his guard down. Almost sweet, if you didn’t count the bruising that knifed across one cheek or the scab at the corner of his mouth.
He’d kicked the covers off during the night, so now the entire right half of him was exposed, pale skin crisscrossed with the tattooed ghosts of pine trees and thunderbirds.
The early light found the line of his jaw, the soft sweep of collarbone above the faded plaid shirt I’d left for him. His hair—always too wild, always a little too long—was a halo on the pillow, every strand catching sunlight like the aftermath of an explosion.
For a long time, I didn’t move. I stood there, coffee in hand, feeling the weight of my own hunger beat itself up against my ribs. Not just the want—though there was plenty of that, ugly and pure—but a deeper, heavier need to keep him exactly where he was. Safe. Still. For the first time in years, not looking for the nearest exit.
He shifted under the blanket, arm thrown over his eyes, a low sound leaking out from behind his teeth. I wondered if he was having a nightmare, if he’d bolt upright and claw his way out of the sheets, but instead he just rolled to the other side and buried his face in the crook of his elbow.
I let myself breathe again.
I’d never been a man who liked taking things I didn’t earn, but with Bo, the temptation to just reach out and claim him—to put a hand on the back of his neck, or maybe just crawl into bed and let him feel how steady I could be—was almost impossible to ignore.
Instead, I did what I always did. I made a plan.
I set my mug on the windowsill, took another look at the way the sun kissed the curve of Bo’s exposed shoulder, and made myself move. I went to the kitchen, started breakfast, and kept an eye on him the whole time.
My place was small, but I liked it that way. Everything had its spot: cast iron pans lined up on the rack, knives hanging point-down over the butcher block. Even the salt and pepper shakers were lined up like they’d been told to stand at attention.
When I started cooking, the world shrank down to sizzle and smoke and the smell of strong, dark coffee winding its way through the apartment.
I cracked eggs into a bowl, beat them with a fork, and poured them into the skillet. They hissed, yellow and loud, as the bacon spat fat and salt onto the stove top. The toast went down, the coffee maker burped another shot of espresso, and through all of it I kept one ear tuned to the bedroom—waiting for the sound of Bo waking up, or the quiet shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood.
He didn’t come out. He didn’t even poke his head around the corner to watch me work. I let a smile pull at my mouth, slow and dangerous. Maybe he was waiting for permission.
When everything was plated and perfect, I took the tray back to the bedroom. The smell of food must’ve worked its way in, because now he was awake—sort of—propped up on one elbow, eyes puffy and red-rimmed but fixed on me with a look that was equal parts challenge and desperation.
I set the tray on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd him.
