“I mean it, Cal.”
“So do I.” But his hand settled over mine where I was still holding the gauze against his ribs, his fingers resting there warm and deliberate. “Thank you. For this. For coming tonight. For giving a damn whether I live or die.”
“Someone has to.”
“Yeah, but it doesn't have to be you. You could've walked away. Let me keep doing this alone.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles, a single slow stroke. “But you didn't.”
I looked at him — rain-soaked and bruised and bleeding, shaking from cold and the aftermath of everything, and still the most alive person I'd ever been in a room with, refusing to quit even when quitting would be smarter.
“No,” I said quietly. “I didn't.”
We sat there while the rain drummed on the leaves overhead and the city went about its business somewhere in the distance, entirely indifferent to two men on a park bench with their hands laced together and no immediate reason to move. His breathing steadied under my palm. His heartbeat was strong and steady despite everything.
Eventually I helped him back into his wet shirt and jacket, steadying him when the movement pulled at his ribs. He stood when I stood and followed when I led, trusting me to get us somewhere safe, and that trust felt like something I hadn't been given in a long time.
The rain had eased to a thin drizzle by the time we left the park. We walked through empty streets and kept to the shadows, two men who'd just survived something that had no business going as well as it had, still figuring out what exactly that meant for both of them.
