I wanted to throw it back in his face. Wanted to tell him it was too late, that he'd already proven where his priorities were. But the way he was looking at me made the anger crack.
“You're an asshole,” I said.
“I know.”
“And you broke my trust.”
“I know.”
“And I still want to punch you in the face.”
“Understandable.” Grant took another step closer, close enough that I could smell the cold air still clinging to his coat, the faint scent of coffee underneath. “But you're not going to.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if you wanted me gone, you wouldn't have let me inside.”
He was right. Fuck him for being right. I set my beer down and turned to face him fully, heart pounding, body already responding to his proximity in ways I couldn't control. “So what now?”
“Now you tell me what you need.”
What did I need? I needed to stop hurting. Needed to feel like I was more than my injuries. Needed him to look at me the way he was looking at me now—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
“I need you to stop being careful with me,” I said.
Grant's eyes darkened. “Jace?—”
“I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to shatter if you touch me.”
“Your shoulder?—”
“I don't give a fuck about my shoulder right now.” I closed the distance between us, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “I've been sitting here for a week going out of my mind, and you're standing in my kitchen talking about being careful like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting.”
“You're injured.”
“I'm aware.” I reached out with my good hand and fisted it in his coat. “But I'm not broken. And I'm so fucking tired of everyone treating me like I am.”
Grant's jaw tightened, and I watched him fight for control. Watched him lose. His hand came up to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and the gentleness of it made my chest ache.
“I don't think you're broken,” he said quietly. “I think you're hurt. And I don't want to make it worse.”
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“Then let me decide.” I leaned into his touch, felt him tense. “I'm asking you, Grant. Don't make me beg.”
Then his mouth was on mine, hard and desperate and everything I'd been craving since the night he'd walked out of my apartment. I opened for him immediately, tasting beer and want.
He kissed me like he was trying to prove something, and I let him, my good hand sliding up into his hair while my injured arm hung useless at my side. The shoulder protested when I pressed closer, but I didn't care. Didn't care about anything except the way he was touching me—careful even now, one hand cradling my face while the other settled on my hip, avoiding the bad leg.
“Bedroom,” I said against his mouth.
“Jace—”
“Now.”
Grant pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, breathing hard. “We need to be smart about this.”
