He grins sloppily as my arm comes around him, and his hand lifts to stroke my face, but it doesn’t quite make it before his arm goes limp, and it drops back to his side.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“I wish,” he grumbles. “At least then it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”
He pries himself from my grip, takes two tangled steps into the room, and collapses onto the couch, face down, shoes on, arms and legs splayed out like a dying star.
“Cross, what are you doing here?”
“I came to apologize,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
The words are muffled as he speaks them directly into the cushions.
“Oh, so you can feel guilt, I see.”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t feel guilty,” he corrects.
“Then what are you apologizing for?” I ask, contemplating whether I may still have use for this knife.
“You’re upset,” he explains. “I don’t like when you’re upset. It hurts.”
In explanation, he points at the leather choker around his throat. The thick band is weathered from his years of prying and scratching at it, and I wonder how many times I’ve seen him choking beneath this dampener without even knowing.
Before I can answer, he groans into the cushions and pushes up on his elbow to look at me.
“Gods, you’re so beautiful. It’s disgusting.”
Definitely drunk.
“Alright,” I sigh, setting the blade on the coffee table. “Come on.”
I help him out of the heavy leather jacket and pull his boots from his feet, leaving them where they fall. Lifting his giant head is no easy task, but he cooperates, rising up just enough for me to wedge a pillow underneath. I drape a blanket over him and manage to roll him onto his side just in case.
“Goodnight, Cross.”
He mutters some semblance of acknowledgment, and I leave him to his fitful sleep on the too-small couch. But I don’t make it very far before his hand latches around my calf.
“Don’t lock it. Please. I’ll be good,” he says. “I promise, I’ll be good.”
“What?”
His eyes are closed as the words tumble from his mouth, and I squat down, brushing his hair out of his face. There’s a scrape above his temple, and he winces as my thumb swipes over it.
“Elliot, what are you talking about? Lock what?”
He doesn’t answer me. He merely strokes my thigh as he mutters, “I’ll be good.”
“Okay, shhh. I won’t lock it.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth, and I stroke his back until his breathing grows deep and his hand falls limp along the floor.
I leave the light on in the hall, and my door cracked as I crawl back into bed, but the crushing feeling from before returns tenfold the moment my head hits the pillow.
As I lay there, listening to the new thrum of my heart, I change my mind.
It’s definitely possible.
