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"Okay?" I ask against his mouth.

"Okay," he says. "More than okay."

I kiss him again, slower this time, tasting the salt of both our tears. His hands come up and settle on my waist, careful, like he's still not sure he's allowed to hold on. I press closer, mindful of the brace, and feel him tremble under me.

When I pull back he's looking at me with that open, wrecked expression he only ever gets when the walls are all the way down.

"Rule five," I say softly. "In here, I'm in charge. You still okay with that?"

A small, wet laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Especially now."

"Good. Because your leg is a disaster and Anand will murder both of us if you put one ounce of weight on it. So we're doing this my way. Carefully. Slowly. And you're going to let me take care of everything."

"Okay."

I climb off him carefully and help him stand. The crutches are awkward; the brace is rigid and heavy. It takes both of us and a lot of muttered French cursing to get him down the short hallway and into my bedroom without him putting weight on the bad leg. By the time I ease him down onto the edge of the bed we're both laughing and a little out of breath.

"This is not sexy," he says, looking at the brace sticking straight out.

"It's extremely sexy," I tell him. "You're here. You walked into the lobby and said your name. Everything else is logistics."

I strip the pillows from the head of the bed and build a careful nest at the foot—three pillows and a folded towel so his braced leg can stay elevated and locked straight. Then I help him lie back. It takes maneuvering. We have to shift his hips, adjust the angle, laugh when the brace nearly takes out my lamp. Finally he's settled: on his back, bad leg propped high and straight, good leg bent, arms free.

I stand at the side of the bed and undress slowly so he can watch. Shirt. Jeans. Everything. When I'm naked I climb onto the mattress on his good side, careful not to jostle the brace.

"Look at me," I say, the old words, soft now.

He does.

I lean down and kiss him—deep, unhurried, tasting the apology he's already spoken and the one still sitting in his chest. My hand slides under his T-shirt, palm flat over his heart. Same place. Always the same place. He makes a quiet sound into my mouth.

"I'm going to take this off," I tell him. "Then the rest. You just stay still."

He lifts his arms when I pull the shirt over his head. I ease his track pants and briefs down carefully, working them over the brace with a lot of awkward tugging and more laughter when they get stuck. Eventually he's bare except for the black brace that goes from hip to ankle. It looks ridiculous and clinical and somehow perfect because it's part of why he's here tonight instead of waiting for another "after."

I settle beside him on my knees, one hand braced by his shoulder so I don't put any weight near the injured leg. I kiss his mouth, his jaw, the scar through his eyebrow, the hollow of his throat. Lower. Across his chest. I take my time. Every place I put my mouth I feel him breathe under me, feel the way his body answers even though he can't move the way he usually does.

When I wrap my hand around his cock he's already hard. I stroke him slowly, watching his face.

"Rémy—"

"I know." I lean down and take him into my mouth, careful of the angle so I don't bump the brace. He's warm and heavy on my tongue. I work him with long, wet pulls, one hand steady at the base, the other resting lightly on his stomach so he can feel that I'm here. He says my name again—soft, broken—and I don't count it. I just keep going until his hips try to lift and he has to force them still because of the brace.

I pull off with a wet sound and reach for the lube in the nightstand. I coat my fingers generously.

"I'm going to open you up," I tell him. "Slow. You're going to stay exactly where you are. If anything hurts—the knee, anything—you say stop."

"I will."

I ease one slick finger inside him. He's tight and hot and he exhales shakily, eyes never leaving mine. I work him open with the same care he's always given me—patient, thorough, watching every reaction. Two fingers. Three. When I curl them and find the place that makes his breath catch, a low sound tears out of him.

"Rémy—fuck⁠—"

"I've got you." I keep the pressure steady, slow. "Just feel it. Let me take care of you."

By the time he's pushing back onto my hand as much as the brace allows, both of us are breathing hard. I roll on a condom, slick myself, and shift carefully so I'm kneeling between his good leg and the propped brace. The logistics are ridiculous. I have to brace most of my weight on one arm and keep my hips angled so I don't jostle him. We both laugh once, quiet and a little breathless, when my knee slips on the sheet and I nearly face-plant into his chest.

"This is the least graceful I've ever been," I mutter.