“Shhh,” I murmur, biting back the urge to thrust right back in just to hear it again. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
I reach up and shut off the water. Silence slams into the space like a wall. Steam curls around us, thick and still. I let it settle for a breath before I finally move—tugging my soaked jeans the rest of the way off with one hand while I keep the other locked around his waist. The denim hits the floor with a slap. I dig into the pocket before leaving them behind and grab the thing.
Then I reach for the towel and wrap it around him, drying him off with hands that remember every mark. Every bruise. Every twitch. Julian doesn’t even protest—just lets me move him, pliant and quiet and blinking slow. His thighs are still shaking. Good.
When he’s dry enough, I lift him again. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t even blink. Just folds into me like he belongs there.
I carry him out of the bathroom and into the container bedroom—the lights are dim, the bed’s unmade, the air warm and soft and thick with the ghost of us. I set him down gently, like I’m afraid the mattress might hurt him. His hands slide off my shoulders with reluctance, like he doesn’t want to let go.
I stand over him a second longer, then say, “Got you a present.”
His brows pull together—suspicious, defensive. “A what.”
I pull the thing from my palm and hold it out: a small, matte metal box, cold and square, wrapped with a thin, lopsided black bow. I press it into his hands.
He eyes it like it’s ticking. “What the fuck is this?” he mutters, clutching the towel tighter around his waist.
“Open it.”
“Rafe—”
“Open it, halo.”
He glares at me, then sighs,grabs the bow, and rips it off. The box clicks open in his lap. His face crumples instantly.
“Ew,” he whines, shoving back like it burned him. “What the—what the fuck—is this a fucking finger?!”
I almost lose it. Almost fucking crack. My lips twitch—just barely.
He looks up at me, horrified, then back down. Freezes. “Oh my god,” he breathes, leaning in closer, squinting. He pales. “Oh my fucking god. Is this—IS THIS NATHAN’S FINGER?!” He screams and hurls the box across the container like it bit him. It hits the metal wall with a clang, bounces off the floor, the bow flopping uselessly.
And I laugh—not loud, not hysterical, but real. A sharp, sudden burst of breath I couldn’t hold back if I tried. I watch him shrink into the sheets, sputtering and red-faced, towel askew, eyes wide with disbelief.
“What the fuck, Rafe?!”
I grin—slow, dark, feral. “Figured I’d get you something meaningful.”
He gapes at me. “YOU GOT ME A FUCKING FINGER.”
“It’s symbolic.”
“You’re deranged.”
“You like it.”
He glares. “I love it.”
Julian flops back dramatically against the pillows, arms spread wide like a starfish martyr, the towel barely clinging to his waist and his cheeks still flushed from screaming about a severed finger. His hair’s soaked, stuck to his temple in messy gold streaks, lips swollen, eyes heavy—but the brat’s not done.
He huffs, then mutters, “I want another present. Preferably one that comes in a syringe.”
I snort.
Fucking junkie.
I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed, sliding my hands up his thighs—slow, wide-palmed—and press a kiss to the damp skin just above his knee. Then another. And another. Until his breath catches and his spine shifts, a subtle arch like he’s already thinking about opening for me again.
Not yet.
