His thumb stills.
“Not all from that,” I add.
His eyes lift.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
He cleans the blood with a damp cloth, slow and gentle enough that my skin forgets why I’m mad for half a second. The cloth moves over my palm. His fingers brace my wrist without trapping it. His mouth is too close to my knee. His hair falls forward, and I want to drag my fingers through it.
Instead I say, “You ever been in love before?”
His hand stills.
“Before you? No.”
“Not Cherry.”
“No.”
“Not some girl in Georgia.”
His mouth curves. “You jealous of my first crush?”
“I’m thorough, papi.”
“You’re nosy.”
“I was kidnapped. I get three days of unlimited questions.”
“Okay.”
He wraps fresh gauze around my palm. “No. Not in love. I liked women. Lusted. Protected some. Hurt some. Missed a few for a night or two. But love?” He ties the bandage, then rests his hands on his thighs like he doesn’t trust them near me. “No.”
I swallow.
“And me?”
His eyes hold mine.
“You know.”
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. That’s the point.”
The room goes quiet.
He sits back on his heels, all rough man and bloodied honesty at my feet.
“I love you,” he says. “I just said, before you, no. You don’t listen.”
My heart stops being useful.
The words are not pretty from him. They are not polished. He says them like they cost him skin. Like love isn’t a poem but a gun put on the table with his fingerprints still on it.
“I love you, Lady. I love your mouth. Your temper. Your bad ideas. The way you turn every room into a stage so nobody sees when your hands shake. I love that you call me gringo when you want to stab me and blanquito when you want to make me forget my own name.” His voice roughens. “I love that you knew how to leave clues while tied to a chair. I hate that you had to. I love you enough that I should have told you every ugly truth before anybody else could hand it to you like a bomb.”
My eyes burn.
