“Better, thank you.”
He toys with the handle of the mug while I relax for a few moments, then hands it back toward me without looking—just as he promised.
I accept it from him, take another sip, and pass it into his waiting hand, careful not to allow our skin to touch. For some reason, the thought of feeling that little electrical charge I always do when his callouses scrape against me is too overwhelming right now.
Having his mouth on me for the first time in days out there almost shattered me on the spot, and I can’t fall apart.
“You know I have the medication from your aunt. The pain meds, the muscle relaxers…you should really consider taking them.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No.”
“Why not?”
I’ve already had this discussion with Nora and Pope, and Mom and Dad, who have all spent the last few days trying to convince me that dealing with my injuries without any sort of medications was going to be too painful. But I’ve had plenty of bumps, bruises, and broken bones in Jiu-Jitsu and boxing over the years that I’m used to not always being comfortable.
I’m not afraid to live with a little pain.
“Because I don’t like the way they affect me, how they fog my mind.”
He nods slowly. “I can understand that. I’ve been in the same position and done the same thing. I just…”
The longer it takes him to continue, the more unease starts to creep back into my body.
“Gage, you just what?”
Slowly, he glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes roaming over my face. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t making yourself suffer because you felt you deserved it.”
I flinch at his words.
Because he isn’t wrong about that, either.
It’s true I don’t want to cloud my head. I don’t want to be stuck in some medication haze. But I also crave the pain in a way I know I shouldn’t.
Because it keeps me replaying what led up to the explosion. It keeps me analyzing what I did wrong and what I missed. And that’s the only way I can figure out what happened and can make sure it doesn’t ever again.
Gage seems to see all of that in a mere glance without me ever confirming it, and I press my lips together and hold out my hand for the mug again instead of responding to him.
If I lied about what he just said, he’d see that, too.
God, I hate how well he knows me.
I hate how he read me like a goddamn open book from the moment we met. How he managed to break through all the walls I’ve always lived behind and has taken root on the opposite side, and now he’s like one of those vines that entangles itself with the brick and can’t be ripped away without completely tearing the wall down.
Cracked or not, I need that wall.
I take another sip and hand it back to him, and he returns to staring at the wall, probably ruminating about how fucked up I am in the head to be fighting him so hard on everything. But a comfortable silence settles over us and I left my eyes drift closed.
“I used to love bubble baths as a kid…”
His words make me stiffen, and I slowly open my eyes to find him staring down into the mug.
“Where did you grow up?”
I barely know a thing about him other than the few documents we’ve found and a handful of brief conversations where he’s revealed very little. Considering the intimate things I’ve done with this man, that suddenly makes me feel like a real asshole.
Gage uses his free hand to run through his hair, sending the long, thick locks falling haphazardly around the side of his face. “You know my dad was in the military, so we moved around a lot.”
“Was that fun, to live different places, or did you hate it?”
