“You too,” Cass mumbled. “Get in with me.”
Riot looked at the tub, which had clearly been designed by someone who considered five foot eight the upper limit of human ambition, and then at his own naked body: cum drying on his stomach, scratches across his chest where Cass had clawed at him in panic. He’d done that. He’d scared Cass badly enough that the kid had drawn blood trying to push him away.
Excellent work. Very protective. Someone should give you a performance award.
“Cass—”
“Please.” Those hazel eyes found his, exhausted but determined. “I don’t want you to let go yet.”
He should want you to let go. He should want you in a different territory.
“Alright,” Riot said, because apparently he couldn’t deny this kid anything. “Hold on.”
What followed was an exercise in physics that would have made his university professors weep. He somehow folded himself into a bathtub designed for people who existed at a reasonable scale, water sloshing over the edges with a resigned inevitability, and pulled Cass in after him. They ended up with Riot’s back against the sloped end, knees bent at angles his joints would make him pay for later, Cass settled between his thighs with his back against Riot’s chest.
“Better?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Cass made a sound of contentment, letting his head fall back against Riot’s shoulder. “Much better.”
They soaked in silence. Riot’s hands moved on autopilot, cupping water and letting it run over Cass’s shoulders, carefully cleaning the mess from his skin. Every touch felt like a contradiction—tender care from the same hands that had pinned him down, that had kept pushing even when Cass said stop.
You did stop,some part of him argued.Eventually.
Eventually isn’t good enough. “Eventually” is the kind of word people put on gravestones when they’re being generous about the cause of death.
“Your robes are probably ruined,” Riot said, desperate for something normal to focus on.
“Probably.” Cass didn’t sound upset.
“I can find you something else to wear. One of my shirts, maybe.”
“I’d like that. Would it smell like you?”
“Yeah, princess. It would.”
“Good.” Cass’s fingers traced idle patterns on Riot’s forearm. “I like how you smell.”
Mine.
No. Not yours. You almost hurt him. You don’t get to call him yours.
But the thought wouldn’t go away. It sat in his chest like a coal, burning steady and completely disinterested in his opinions on the matter.
Eventually the water cooled and practicality won out over whatever this was—this fragile, quiet thing that Riot was afraid to examine too closely in case it turned out to be something he didn’t deserve. He wrapped Cass in the largest towel he could find. His hands were gentle—overcompensating, probably.Trying to prove that he could touch without taking. That the hands were capable of something other than damage.
“We need to redo your bandages,” he said, eyeing the soggy gauze. “The water wasn’t great for them.”
Cass looked down at himself and winced. “Oh. I forgot about those. Being near you makes it hurt less.”
There was a sentence designed to make a guilty man feel worse, and Cass had delivered it with the cheerful obliviousness of someone handing him a lit match while standing in a fuel depot.
“Sit on the edge. I’ll find the first aid kit.”
He found supplies in Lilac’s medicine cabinet and brought them back. Cass was perched on the tub’s edge, towel wrapped around his waist, looking smaller than usual with his wet hair plastered to his head.
“This might sting,” Riot warned as he peeled away the old bandages.
Cass hissed, but held still. “I’m used to it.”
