“You kissed me like it meant something.”
“It did.”
The words landed like a fist to the ribs. I flinched. “I don’t need that shit,” I said, quieter now. “Why are you here?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop pretending you don’t want someone to stay.”
I had no answer. I just lay there, hurting. Hating myself for the part that wanted to believe him.
I glanced at my arm where gauze wrapped tight around the worst of the burns, the edges stained faint brown with antiseptic. Medical tape tugged at the fine hairs on my skin, and underneath I could feel the throb of broken flesh and healing nerves, raw and angry beneath the sterile cover.
“More scars,” I murmured.
“We all have them,” Killian murmured. He rolled up his sleeve. A mess of patterns snaked up his forearm, jagged and unforgiving. I hadn’t seen them before—had I ever seen him naked? Barely.
“I said no to a john once,” he said. “Didn’t go well.”
It wasn’t a confession. It was a shared truth. Something fresh to match the new wounds I had.
I turned my face away. “You don’t get to swap scars to make me feel better just because you fucked me.”
“I didn’tfuckyou,” he said with patience. “I heldyou while you fell apart. You trusted me and kissed me as if it mattered.”
“I fucking hate you!” I yelled, but the words felt hollow even as they left my mouth. What I really hated was the way he’d touched something buried so deep I didn’t have a name for it. I hated that he stayed. I hated that part of me wanted him to. Needed him to.
“No. You don’t.”
I closed my eyes, throat burning. I hated him for being right. Hated myself more for wanting to do it again. Then, the door opened. The air shifted.
Rio stepped inside, filling the doorway like a storm cloud. Shoulders squared, eyes narrowed. He looked at Killian, then at me, then back again.
“Rio,” Killian said.
“Killian,” Rio replied.
Rio was big, but Killian was bigger—taller, broader. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to puff up. He just met Rio’s stare and nodded once. Rio returned the nod. Some quiet understanding passed between them. A boundary drawn, a warning acknowledged. It pissed me off that they were having some silent conversation about me without including me.
“Stop doing that shit! You’re not passing me over to him as if he’s in charge of me now!”
Killian stood. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t touch me. Stopped at the edge of the bed, as if he were checking that I could hold myself upright without him.
“Rest,” he said. Not a suggestion. A promise.
Then, he left.
Rio stepped in after him and shut the door.
His expression was unreadable. Then, he looked around the room—the crumpled sheets, the mug on the sill, the folded hoodie Killian had left behind.
“I’ve seen the aftermath before,” he said. “When you chase the fire just to feel something, you break, but this doesn’t look like wreckage, more like someone other than me is trying to keep you safe.”
I didn’t look at him. “Don’t read into it.”
“I don’t have to. It’s written all over you.”
