“Come on, let me wash you.” I tug him up off the couch.
After I unhook him from his pump and leave it in the bedroom, the shower is warm and quiet. Jackson is standing under the spray with his head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the water run over his face. I wash him gently, hands tracing every inch of his body.
Jackson opens his eyes and looks at me through wet lashes. “You were scared,” he says softly.
“Terrified,” I admit, because I’m done lying to make things lighter.
“I’m sorry.”
I cup his face, water running over my hands.
“No,” I say. “No more apologizing for being human.”
He leans into my palm. “I didn’t eat enough,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I was… anxious. About today. About us being… seen… I guess.”
My chest tightens and I press my forehead to his.
“Mi sol,”I whisper, “I will always see you.”
His breath shudders. “And now that the world sees us too,” I add, “the world is just going to have to deal with two sexy motherfuckers who love each other.”
Jackson’s lips twitch. “I mean… you’re the sexy one.”
“Let’s not start this.” I raise a brow. “You are equally, if not more, sexy than I am.”
Then he kisses me slowly, a thank you he doesn’t have words for. I kiss him back and hold him there until his body stops trembling. “You’re it for me, Jack. Nothing is ever going to change that.”
Afterward,I feed him not because he can’t do it himself, but because I know what his crashes look like. When the body finally realizes it was in danger and decides to punish him with exhaustion.
Jackson sits at the kitchen counter in sweatpants and an old Coyotes tee, his hair still damp, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the water. I set a plate in front of him. It’s nothing fancy, just some chicken and potatoes with grilled veggies that I prepped before the game.
He eyes it like I’m offering him vegetables at gunpoint.
“Dre,” he complains.
“Eat,” I say, voice all command and no patience.
He rolls his eyes, but he picks up his fork and takes a bite. Then another. Halfway through, his shoulders drop. His breathing evens out. The tension starts to bleed away.
“You’re hovering,” he mutters. “I do know how to consume calories without an anxious boyfriend watching over me.”
My brat has returned.
“I’m supervising,” I correct, stealing a piece of squash from his plate.
He snorts. “Micromanaging.”
“If I remember correctly,” I say, leaning in to kiss his temple, “you like when I micromanage you.”
Jackson’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and his smirk makes my stomach flutter.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”
ELEVEN
JACKSON
Waking up feels like crawling out of wet cement. My eyes crack open, and the room immediately tilts. Not dizzy exactly, but heavy. Like gravity decided to bully me and is on a personal mission to make me throw up. My throat is so dry my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my head has that bruised, tender pressure that always shows up after a bad low, like my brain is mad at me for almost shutting the lights off.
