He picked at the edge of the gauze over his wound, eyes unfocused. His body was trembling now, the adrenaline wearing off, the pain setting in. I wanted to help, but didn't know how.
So I did the only thing I could. I stood up from the chair and sat next to him on the couch and took his hand in mine. It just seemed natural, something you'd do for your family member or a friend who was in pain. Certainly not for strange man whose face you'd never seen.
He didn't say anything, his gaze traced my movements, dropped to where our hands were now locked together. He was just there, propped against my pillows, shirtless and dangerous.
His skin was smooth, but palm a little calloused. And there was no reaction. No desire to pull back. No aversion. I marveled at this calm in me that seemed almost unnatural in his presence.
Time ticked by. Seconds, then minutes of silence. His eyelids grew heavy and started to droop, then closed completely.
I didn't realize I'd reached out until my fingertips brushed the edge of the burn on his abdomen. It was uneven and warm, the heat under his skin alive and electric. I half expected for him to tell me to cut it out. He didn't.
"When did this happen?" I asked.
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer because he'd fallen asleep.
"Before I was adopted," he replied, at last. "I don't know how. I just woke up with it one day, in a hospital."
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"Seven."
I traced the outline of the scar, gentle. "It must have hurt."
He shrugged, but I felt the way his whole body tensed under the contact.
"I don't remember," he repeated.
"Not even a little?"
"I don't have any memories of who I was before my adoption."
I had so many questions for him, but I also felt such sadness all of a sudden that negated my curiosity.
For a while neither of us said anything again. The apartment was quiet, but I was acutely aware of the warmth from his body, the way it radiated across the few inches between us.
I wondered if he could sense my pulse, too. It felt like the only thing in the room louder than my thoughts.
"I'm sorry," I said, not sure if I meant about the scar, or the fact that I couldn't stop staring at his perfectly sculptured body, or the fact that he'd been hurt.
He took his time to answer. Maybe the painkillers were kicking in, or maybe he was just so far inside his own skull that I couldn't reach him. "Don't be." His opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Don't you remember anything at all from before? Not even the smallest details?"
"No," he said, voice low and grating. "I doubt there was anything good, though."
"Do you want to remember?"
"Sometimes forgetting is the wise option."
I understood that better than most.
"When I was thirteen," I said, "my parents died in a car accident. It was a long time ago, but I still think about it every day." The words surprised me. I almost never said them out loud. "Some days I wish I could forget. It'd make everything easier. But then I remember… I don't want to lose them."
He watched me, eyes calculating as always, but I saw the way his breathing changed.
"I'm a little envious of you that you don't remember. Because it erases the pain of missing them. I know it's twisted but…" I never finished that sentence. Instead, I moved on to talk about my foster mother. "After that, I lived with Margaret. She was…a godsend."
His head tilted on the pillow a fraction. "You like her?"
