Page 10 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

But that was Kit. Hasty retreats, like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

Kit had never been unkind to me, quite the opposite. Kit encouraged everyone (mainly Rory) to be nice to me, defended me during team meetings, took my side in any argument. He’d often leap out of his armchair to give me his seat when I wandered into the basement. Collected me from my lair—the name the others had quickly adopted for my tiny cupboard office back when I’d just started—if I was running late.

But as far as forming any sort of friendship went? Not a chance.

It was odd glances and strained silences, like being caught in a feedback loop, all static and white noise where normal conversation should be. It was Kit going completely still whenever I entered a room. It was me stammering through basic conversations because I couldn’t work out why he treated me differently.

The closest we ever came to bonding was when I helped him in the kitchen on Christmas Eve—the very night he ended up stabbing the dining table with that rather sharp knife mid-dinner…

But things had gone back to normal after that. Well, until Kit discovered he had a Greywatch chip embedded in his brain, followed shortly after by the discovery that Kit and Rory’s dead father was actually still alive and kicking. Kit had promptly disappeared for two entire weeks.

When he returned, he seemed pretty much his old self.

Until Wren and I caught him pissing behind some wheelie bins one evening. Things got even more awkward after that. It was super embarrassing, to be fair.

“Felix!” Priya gasped as she bounced down the stairs, tossing Kit a small green bag. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” I said. “Just a tiny… stumble!”

“Did the situation really require you to whip your shirt off, Action Man?” Priya said, clearly holding back laughter. “You could have shouted up for a towel. At least put this back on. Some of us don’t want to ogle your six-pack.” She tossed him his discarded cardigan—the grey one that I figured was his favourite. The one that always looked particularly soft, not that I’d ever touched any of them.

Kit ignored her jibing, his attention fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach perform several somersaults. His shirtlessness certainly wasn’t helping—I had to try very hard not to stare at the way the fairy lights cast shadows across his skin.

“The bleeding’s stopped now,” I said quickly, checking the shirt. It was true—I patted the shirt to my nose, and it came back still white. “Really, I can just—”

I tried to push myself up from the armchair, but Kit’s hand landed on my shoulder, gentle but immovable.

“Please, Felix. Let me help you,” he said quietly.

There was something in his voice I couldn’t identify. Not pity, exactly.

I glanced down at my palms. A few drops of blood welled up from the scrapes. It hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing remotely serious. The kind of thing you’d get from falling off a bike as a kid.

What I should have said: “I’ve had paper cuts worse than this.”

What I found myself saying: “Okay.”

Kit’s hand closed around my forearm before I could change my mind. His grip was firm but careful, like he was handling a particularly skittish animal that might bolt at any moment.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“Stay,” he said, and did I imagine the way his lips quirked into a half smile?

He pulled an alcohol wipe from the first-aid kit, tearing it open with his teeth. The bloody T-shirt disappeared from my lap as he bundled it aside, and then he reached for my hand.

My brain short-circuited. Which was ridiculous, considering it was just Kit cleaning a scrape. But then again, I wasn’t exactly used to people touching me.

His fingers were warm and calloused, his hands dwarfing mine completely. They were the kind of hands that could probably snap my wrist without much effort but held me like I was made of tissue paper.

He dabbed at the scrapes with the alcohol wipe, each touch so gentle I barely felt the sting. His breathing had gone oddly heavy, like cleaning a few drops of blood was somehow taxing work.

“This might sting a wee bit,” he murmured, though he’d already finished with the worst of it.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Priya had decided to disappear and leave us to it—gee, thanks, Priya—so the basement was silent except for the sound of Kit’s breathing and the distant rumble of London traffic overhead.

He pulled out a plaster—one of those ridiculously large ones that was completely unnecessary for what amounted to a graze. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Almost.