“I don’t want to wake up and find you gone.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
From the twitch in his face I’d say he’s trying to smile. “You will?”
Sighing, I nod. “Yes, but I have no clean underwear, no pjs, no change of clothes, and no toothbrush. So can I at least go back to my place and get them first?”
Shaking his head he pats the bed beside him. “You’re too far away.”
Satan is a softie. Who knew?
He picks up his phone, his fingers moving at lightning speed before he plops the phone back onto the bedside cabinet and slaps the bed again. “Pitstop, come here.”
He relents and takes the meds because he knows it means I’ll sit, then I turn the light back off and hit the bedside lamp instead. And when I settle next to him, he pulls me against him, buries his nose in my hair and inhales. It’s not wash day so he’s probably gotten a nasal passage full of freakin’ dandruff and grease but he doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck.
“Wanna talk about it?”
He shakes his head.
“Wanna cry about it?”
Another shake, but he sniffs, and my heart splinters.
“Oh, Tate.”
“Don’t.” His voice is hard, charged with emotion, strained with the effort of holding back.
I sit up in the bed, and instead of letting him hold me, I hold him. I draw him against my chest, and he falls apart. Huge shuddering sobs rack his athletic frame as he cries on my chest.
Soothing him is pointless, but I try anyway. I rub circles on his back, stroke his arm, and shush him as he just lets days of frustration and agony out on my chest.
By the time he’s done, he’s snoring softly in my arms, and I’m probably as exhausted as he is. And my shirt’s wet.
Fuck.
The last time I saw a breakdown like that was Dad to Mom. It was months after his injury, he’d just been told he’d likely never play again. I watched through a crack in the living room door as my Dad, my idol, broke down on Mom’s lap.
A soft knock on the door is followed by Ares coming in with a dark duffel bag in his hand. He sets it on the floor next to my side on the bed. He crouches next to me and hands me a bottle of water.
“You okay?”
I’m not, not really, but I don’t want to burden Ares, or anyone else in this house for that matter. They’ve got enough on their plate with Tate right now. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He shakes his head. “Mentirosa.”
I smirk. “That means beautiful, right?”
He smirks right back. “It means you’re full of shit. I brought you some of your things.”
“My... things?” I blink slowly, glancing down at the bag.
He nods. “Nightwear, change of clothes, toothbrush, you know, your things.”
The blood drains from my body in a sweep of ice through my veins. Ares de la Peña was in my underwear drawer?
As though he can read my mind, he holds up his hand. “No, amiga. I didn’t go hunting through your things. Eloise helped me.”
“Is my dorm room just a fucking free for all?” I’m conflicted, grateful for their thoughtfulness and bringing me my things but it’s a gross invasion of my personal space. Started by one Satan Tate Myers lying snuggled against me, clutching me like he’s terrified I might flee.
