He doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds me tighter. Breath slowing against my skin. One hand cradling the back of my head, the other stroking aimlessly down my spine.
The silence stretches. Not angry. Just… fragile.
“I hate how much I need you,” he says. Not loud. Not even like he means to say it aloud.
The words slam into me harder than the fucking. I freeze. He feels it.
“I mean it,” he says, choking on it. “It makes me fucking sick. How much I want you. How much of me is just this now. You.”
His voice breaks on the last word. Just barely. Just enough for me to hear the truth.
He hates needing anyone. He hates needing me. Because needing me means he’s already lost the fight. He already knows I could wreck him worse than anyone else ever has.
And still, he stays pressed to me like he can’t breathe unless our ribs are touching.
“I know,” I whisper, curling fingers into his hair. “I know.”
He buries his face in my neck and holds me through the slow freeze of the shower, through the tremors in both our hands, through the long unraveling that comes after chaos.
And when I shiver too hard to hide it, he finally stands, lifts me into his arms, and carries me out as if I’m still something worth saving.
He lays me out on his bed. “I’ve got a client in an hour,” he says. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge. Some donuts I got for you, frosted and powdered. You can stay as long as you need.”
I blink up at him, still jelly-spined and brainless. “You broke me,” I croak. “I’m gonna need a nap just to remember my name. How are you gonna work?”
“I’ll manage.” He rubs the back of his neck, still damp, his skin flushed. My bite mark’s a violent bloom on his throat. “You want me to bring you the donuts or the pizza? I got soda. Whiskey too.”
“Yeah. Pizza and powdered donuts and soda, please.” My voice sounds drunk. I feel drunk. Fucked into a new dimension.
I watch his bare ass as he heads for the kitchen.
What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is he?
If my legs worked, I might run.
He disappears for a minute, and I just lie there staring at the ceiling like it might explain what the fuck just happened to me.
Then he’s back. Plate in one hand, soda in the other. Bare chest, towel slung loose around his hips.
“Sit up,” he says, nudging my shoulder gently with his knuckles.
“Can’t. I’m dead.”
“You’re dramatic,” he says, but his voice is amused. He sets the plate on the nightstand and perches beside me on the edge of the bed.
Then he picks up a powdered donut. Holds it out.
I blink at him. “What are you doing?”
“You said you wanted one.”
“Yeah, like… to eat with my own hands.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“Your dick did that.”
He gives me a flat look. “So shut up and open your mouth.”
