Page 33

The thought hits low and sharp. Once he closes this door, once he locks himself back into iron and distance, he may never stand like this again. Never let someone see the moment before the walls come back up.

My chest tightens until it aches. The anger I was carrying collapses inward, folds soft at the edges like paper held too close to flame. He’s hurt me more times than I can count—and still, when he looks at me like this, my body leans instead of recoils. Like it recognizes the cost before I do.

I lower my hand—not retreating, not yielding—just holding it where he can see it. Careful. Reverent. Like if I move too fast, I’ll lose him again.

“I won’t touch you,” I say quietly. “Unless you tell me to.”

The space between us draws tight. His breath catches—barely there—before he drags it back under control, jaw setting like he’s locking something down before it escapes.

A short nod.

It costs him more than blood ever did. And he knows exactly what he’s giving me in that moment.

That’s my yes.

“Sit.”

He does—careful, deliberate—like sitting is a concession he’s making once and doesn’t intend to repeat. The gash on his chest is raw and livid, skin split clean enough it looks intentional, heat rolling off it in waves. Not a kill shot. A message. Like the world took a swing and decided to let him keep standing—this time.

“Have any super glue?”

“Under the sink.”

He reaches for it without hurry. No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. Just the smooth, practiced economy of a man who’s stitched himself back together more times than he’s been helped.

“I can finish this myself.”

“I know.” I keep my hands still, waiting for him to believe I mean it. “But you don’t have to.”

The words barely make it across the space between us.

His gaze stays down. “I know the drill.”

Something tightens low under my ribs. Not pity. Anger—the quiet kind that settles when you realize how long someone’s been doing this alone. How automatic it is. How dangerous it must feel to let another set of hands anywhere near the damage.

“Let me.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Weighted. I can feel him counting something—time, cost, consequence.

Then—

“Do it.”

One word. Flat. Final. Not surrender. Permission.

I step between his knees, slow enough that he could stop me if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Heat pours off him, immediate and overwhelming, raising goosebumps along my arms. His thighs frame me, solid and unyielding beneath denim, like he’s holding himself still by force of will alone.

We’re close enough now that my breath brushes his skin. Close enough that every inhale feels like trespass.

He smells like iron and sweat and burnt coffee, with lavender threaded underneath—something clean and unexpected that makes my chest tighten. My hands don’t hesitate, but my focus fractures anyway: the steady lift of his chest beneath my palms, the warmth of his breath ghosting my collarbone, the way every muscle in him is locked down—not for pain, but for proximity.

The peroxide bites.

He doesn’t make a sound.

His breath changes, though. Shallow. Controlled. Like he’s rationing it.

“How tall are you?” I ask, quietly, because silence feels dangerous this close.