Page 23 of Twisted Needs

Anders lets out a quiet groan. “I hate sleeping when I have migraines.”

“I know you do.”

“You know what happens when I close my eyes?”

I know exactly what happens. “Nightmares,” I murmur sadly. He’s grown out of them as far as I know, but anytime his father gets brought up, it sends Anders down this spiral. Every attempt at reaching out or sending him a birthday card in the mail is just a reminder for him that Rogelio is still out there. It’s devastating and I hate that there isn’t anything I can do to stop it.

He sighs, nodding. “Fucking nightmares.”

I nod toward the compress. “That’s why I gave you the ice pack. It’ll freeze them out.”

His mouth twitches, the tiniest smile pulling at his lips. “Pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

“Well, it’s too late. Medical treatment has already been administered, and you should never question my methods as a physician.”

He huffs out of his nose, wearing a crooked smile. “You’re an idiot.”

“Aaand the treatment is already working, I see.”

That earns me an eye roll, and I think he’s finally starting to look like himself again.

The conversation fades after that. At some point, I replace the old compress with a cold one from the freezer. He doesn’t even open his eyes when I do it. Just lifts his head slightly so I can slide it underneath. The familiarity of it should feel normal. Instead, something about it catches me off guard.

“Thank you, Pet’ka,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “Sorry for reverse kidnapping you.” He pauses for a second before he speaks again. “I just…needed you,” he admits.

The simple confession steals my breath away, but it also makes me think of what happened a few days ago. One second we were laughing and the next, I was mauling him half to death. I told myself it was the alcohol. Then I tried convincing myself it was because I hate blizzards. My papa died in a blizzard, so the sight of all that snow brings back a lot of memories from when he was living. I think a part of me was reaching out to Anders and chasing the pure feeling I get when I’m with him.

Those explanations worked a lot better before tonight, because now I’m sitting on the floor beside him at three in the morning while he sleeps on my couch, and I’m fucking noticing things…like the way his hair falls into his face, and the faint crease between his eyebrows that never completely disappears when he’s stressed.

I think it’s the fact that he finds me safe that really does me in. I shouldn’t be thinking twice about helping him like this, but every time I glance back toward the couch, my attention catches on him again. And when he finally falls asleep for real, he shifts slightly toward where I’m sitting, like some part of him knows I’m still right here.

I stare at the fireplace, then the wall. Literally anything that isn’t Anders, but it still doesn’t work. I can feel him. The room is just filled with Anders.

The kiss had been easy to explain away. This isn’t.

The plain, naked truth is the fact that being needed by him makes me feel so fucking good. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, I like having him here a little more than I should.

That thought sends a bolt of panic straight through me, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do with that.

CHAPTER 8

NOT SNEAKING AROUND

PARKER

One Year Back

If I had to take a shot every time Emelie tried setting me up with one of her single mom friends, I’d probably die of alcohol poisoning.

We’re crammed into the breakfast nook off the kitchen with the windows cracked open against the summer heat. The kids finally went down an hour ago, and now the whole house has fallen into that late-night stillness that makes it a little bit easier to breathe. There’s a half-empty beer in front of Luca, cigarette smoke curling through the air from where Emelie’s balanced against the corner bench with her knees tucked to her chest, and there’s some old French jazz record spinning quietly from the living room because apparently she cannot physically relax without reminding the world she’s European.

“My friend Clarice lives in Ballston now,” Emelie says in her strong French accent, gesturing at me with her cigarette. “Thirty-four. Very beautiful. Owns a home.”

Luca snorts into his beer. “She owns property? Park, man, this is getting serious.”

“She also has four kids,” Emelie adds.

Goddamn.