He didn't turn.
I gave him a quick once over without touching. No obvious open wounds, no serious injuries. Whatever was wrong with him was the kind of injury that you couldn’t heal with stitches and bandages.
I pulled the joint from my jacket. I kept my hands steadier than they had any right to be. I lit it off the nightstand lighter, and he turned at the click. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring past me, to some middle distance where I couldn’t follow.
I held out the joint and waited. I didn't move closer, didn't push, just stood there with my hand out like my mother taught me with the strays behind my grandmother's house. You don't rush. You offer. You wait. Eventually, they come to you.
He crossed the room, took it from my fingers, and put it between his lips, taking a long, deep drag. His shoulders dropped and his jaw unclenched, and in the space of a few seconds, he was almost back.
I wanted to be that joint. I wanted to be the thing he put to his mouth without thinking, the thing that made him soften.
He exhaled slow. Smoke curled off his lips in the parking lot light, and Jesus Christ, I was so gone for this man it wasn't even funny anymore.
He opened his eyes on the fourth drag, met mine, and held.
"You hurt?" My voice was rough. "Talk to me, guapo."
He turned his head, revealing a shallow cut across his throat, thin and crusted at the edges.
My hands clenched into fists. I was going to find whoever hurt him and break every finger they'd used to hold that blade, and I'd make them beg while I did it.
"Sit." I kept my voice level even though rage was crawling up my throat. "Let me see it."
He dropped onto the bed without argument.
I tilted his chin up with two fingers. “Doesn’t look too bad,” I murmured, and opened the first aid kit.
He let out a slow breath and leaned into my palm while I cleaned the cut with my other hand. Then I smoothed some gauze over the wound and taped the edges. There was no reason to keep touching him now that I was done, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I let my fingers trail from the bandage down to his collarbone.
He closed his eyes and held still and let me.
"Jasper." I waited until he opened his eyes. "I need to know something, and I need you to be straight with me. Brussels. Was that a one-time thing for you?"
The silence stretched. My pulse hammered in my temples.
"Because it wasn't for me. I want more. Maybe that makes me selfish, wanting you the way I do when you've got enough problems without me adding to the pile. But mierda, Jasper, I want you and I’m tired of pretending I don’t."
He swallowed. The bandage on his throat shifted with it, and I tracked the movement like it was going to tell me something his face wouldn't.
"You smoking on the porch every night, and me finding excuses to be out there with you," I said. "Neither of us saying a damn word about it." I shook my head. "I can't do that anymore. I can't keep pretending I don't want to put my hands on you every time you're in the same room."
He clenched his jaw and looked away. My stomach dropped because I'd pushed too hard, said too much, ruined the one good thing I had left.
"It wasn't a one-time thing," he managed, voice rough.
"Then why haven't we..."
"Because I'll ruin it." He said it like a fact he'd already accepted, like he'd run the numbers and knew exactly how this ended. "I ruin everything I try to keep. You're already a target because of me. Brussels made it worse. Every morning in that kitchen made it worse. Every time you got within reach and I wanted..." He stopped and swallowed hard. "If I start, I won't stop. I can’t afford to not stop. Not with you."
I peeled his hand off my wrist where he'd grabbed without realizing and pressed it flat against my chest. "Feel that? My heart's still beating. I'm still here. You don't get to decide for me what I can handle. My family's been making that call since before the Nazis showed up, and we're still here, still standing,still fighting. You're not scarier than the Nazis, guapo. I promise you that."
He spread his fingers against my chest and pressed through the fabric like he was trying to reach skin, heat, something he could hold on to.
Then he fisted my hoodie and pulled me closer.
I went. I'd been going since Brussels. I had zero intention of making him ask twice.
He pressed his forehead to my collarbone, and I slid my hand into his hair. A shudder ran through him hard enough to move my ribs, and I tightened my grip, held him closer.
