He was wearing my dress pants—the same pair he’d bitched about earlier when his legs had refused to cooperate—and one of my old button-downs. Pale blue, soft with age, the collar frayed. It swam on his frame, hanging off narrow shoulders. He was pale, drawn, but at least he was upright.
“I’m going home,” he said, voice flat.
I didn’t argue. Not immediately. Instead, I reached for the small duffel bag I’d packed earlier, half-hoping he wouldn’t be this stubborn. Inside: his lighter, his wallet, no cards, just a bundle of cash I’d found.
I handed him the bag and a printed set of instructions. “Aftercare. I googled everything Doc didn’t bother to say.”
He blinked at me, thrown. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I replied. “Keep the burns dry. Watch for infection. Don’t pop the blisters. Hydration. Rest.Take the painkillers with food, or you’ll throw up. No soaking them, no friction, no tight clothes.” I hesitated. “You’ll need help changing the dressings after forty-eight hours.”
Jamie’s mouth twisted as if he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or furious.
He glanced toward the door, then looked down at the shoes I’d left for him—his own, somehow untouched by the flames. He leaned on the wall, hands trembling as he shoved his feet into the worn Nikes. I watched as sweat beaded along his hairline, jaw clenched tight with effort. Even though he looked as if he might collapse at any second, he finished tying his laces, then pressed a hand flat to the wall, catching his breath. Every part of me wanted to reach out. Steady him. Say stay.
Instead, I picked up my keys.
“I’ll drive you.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“I’m driving you.”
Jamie shot me a sideways look, a flicker of something hot in his expression. Then, he relented with a sharp exhale and headed cautiously toward the door.
I followed, letting him keep his pride. I could’ve scooped him up in one motion, but that wasn’t whathe needed. He wasn’t fragile. Not the way he thought I saw him. But he was hurting. More than he’d ever admit.
I helped him into the passenger seat of the Audi. He didn’t fight me this time. Just let me steady him as he lowered himself into the seat, his hand curling over the doorframe as if it hurt to let go.
The silence between us stretched as I pulled out of the basement parking and headed for the street.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice barely audible above the engine’s hum.
“I know.”
“You act like I’ll shatter if I’m not wrapped in cotton wool.”
I snorted. “I think you’re walking around with fresh burns and a fever and trying to act like it’s a normal Tuesday.”
“I’m not yours to worry about, Killian.”
I gripped the wheel tighter. “You are.”
He looked out of the window as if he didn’t know how to respond to that. As if the idea of belonging to anything—or anyone—made his chest tighten.
“Doesn’t mean you get to decide.”
“I’m not deciding. I’m driving.”
More silence. Then, softer: “You printed instructions.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t answer. But when we hit a red light, I saw how his eyes drifted shut for a second, still gripping the seatbelt to keep it from his shoulder. His fingers weren’t burned—how the hell had he walked out of there with nothing on his hands? When we reached his apartment, he didn’t get out. Just sat there, breathing, eyes still closed. I didn’t move.
“You didn’t have to find me last night,” he said.
I stared ahead. “I know. But I did.”
