Jo kissed my temple, then my jaw, then my lips. “You with me?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I managed, even though it was a lie. My mind was gone, floating somewhere overhead, watching Jo cradle me like a broken thing that needed fixing.
He shut off the water, wrapped me in a towel, then scooped me up and carried me to the bed. He could have just dropped methere, but instead he laid me down like I was made of something rare. He found another towel and blotted the water from my hair and chest, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to miss a single drop.
He knelt by the bed, set my arm on a pillow, and inspected the marks the cuffs had left. His fingers found the pulse point at my wrist, rubbing little circles, then he opened a bottle—lotion, maybe, or some kind of ointment—and massaged it in, gentler than I thought possible for hands that could crush a wrench in two.
He did the same to my ankles, my neck, every place that hurt.
When he finished, he stripped the towel away and pulled a comforter over me, the sheets cool and soft against my skin.
He went to the bathroom, did something at the sink, then came back and eased himself onto the bed behind me, one arm looping around my waist.
We didn’t talk. I could hear his breath slow and steady, the beat of his heart thumping at my back.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to find a thought that wasn’t just static and exhaustion. Jo’s hand found mine under the blanket. He squeezed, once, and didn’t let go.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, sleep came easy.
I woke later—could have been minutes or years—curled into the crook of his body, the heat of him soaking into every bruise and muscle. Jo was still asleep, chin on my shoulder, beard scratchy against my neck.
My body ached, but the pain was sweet, every throb a reminder of exactly what I’d asked for. I flexed my fingers, testing the joints, and found the marks at my wrists were already fading, just a memory pressed into the skin.
I didn’t want to move, not even to piss, not even to check the time. I just wanted to stay here, anchored by Jo’s arm and theweight of the blanket, until the world gave up trying to pull me back.
But eventually, Jo stirred. He made a noise in his throat, then kissed the back of my neck, lips warm and soft.
“Hey,” he said, voice gravelly.
“Hey,” I echoed.
He didn’t say anything else, just held me tighter.
I could have told him I loved him, right then. Maybe I would have, if I’d known how. But I settled for twisting my fingers into his and squeezing back, hoping he’d understand.
After a while, he let go and rolled out of bed, naked and unashamed. He moved around the room, gathering clothes, picking up the towels, cleaning up the evidence. I watched him, half-lidded, every move he made sending a low buzz through my chest.
He brought me water, then coffee, then food. He made me eat, made me drink, made me take the pills for the pain in my side. When I tried to protest, he just gave me a look—one I’d learned not to argue with.
He washed me again, this time with a washcloth and a bowl of warm water, wiping every inch of me like he was resetting the counters. When he was done, he got dressed, then came back and tucked the comforter around me like I was a kid and he was tucking me in for the night.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hand on my hip. “You need anything else?”
I thought about it.
“Stay,” I said.
He nodded, and slid in behind me, spooning me close.
“Sleep, baby boy,” he whispered.
I did.
I dreamed of rivers, and mountains, and Jo’s arms holding me above the current, every time.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to wake up anywhere else.
Chapter Ten
