"I'll think about it."
"That's McCabe for probably not, but I'll take it." Michael paused. "Love you, brother. Even when you're being weird and secretive."
"Love you, too."
The call ended with a soft beep. I set the phone down and stayed in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the chipped laminate countertop while I tried to untangle the knot of guilt in my gut.
When I returned to the living room, Dorian looked up. I couldn't quite read his expression.
"Family checking in?" he asked quietly.
"Something like that." I slipped the phone back into my pocket. "They assume the worst if I don't regularly check in."
He nodded. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Not telling them about me."
I settled back into my chair, the leather yielding to my weight. "They don't need to know everything."
"Still." He looked down at his hands. "Thank you."
I let silence fill the space between us again.
He looked at the tea on the side table and lifted it. He slowly sipped while he continued to watch me.
We were both quiet, leaving only distant traffic and the muffled drone of Mrs. Kaminski's morning programs in the background.
After returning the tea to the table, he rolled onto his side, folded into a slightly protective curve. I watched tension drain from his angular features as sleep claimed him. The hypervigilant sharpness and constant assessment of threats softened. He appeared vulnerable in a way that probably would have mortified him if he'd known.
A few minutes later, his face contorted.
It began with a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes, lips parting slightly. His shoulders jerked as if someone had yanked them, and those carefully positioned fingers clenched against his ribs.
I recognized the unconscious warfare. I'd witnessed it in too many hospital beds, catching glimpses of it in my bathroom mirror during the months after coming home. The dreams brought back the violence from places where survival meant constant vigilance.
His entire body went rigid, fighting enemies only he could see. A soft, broken noise escaped his throat—neither a cry nor a plea. It was raw pain.
Sweat had gathered along Dorian's hairline despite the cool air, his skin gone pale and clammy. Whatever battle raged behind his closed eyes wasn't yielding ground easily.
As I leaned down to tuck his blanket around his shoulders, he stirred, an arm stretching.
Then I felt it.
His fingers slid against my wrist, not a grip or a grasp. It was only contact. The pads of his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist where my pulse ran close to the surface.
I froze.
His eyes opened, barely. Half-lidded, unfocused.
The pressure of his fingers was like the brush of a feather, and he held them there.
Was it gratitude? Comfort? Or something else I couldn't detect?
I held my breath for a few seconds more before pulling away. His eyes opened wider and followed me as I eased back into the chair.
What the hell was I doing? I'd patched up men in back alleys and blast zones. This shouldn't have felt different, but it did. It felt like crossing some border, but I wasn't sure what.
