Page 180 of Damián

“He was already out of the house with Mom when I arrived,” my sister continues, “but then he ran back outside for Carlitos, and that’s when he got shot.”

“Carlitos got shot?!”

“No!” they both say at the same time.

“Your friend got shot, mijo.” My mother rubs the bridge of her nose. “Pay attention.”

But I can’t pay attention. My mind is too busy racing, trying to piece together the timeline and whatever the hell they are talking about.

“What friend?” I demand. “What was his name?”

“Hi,” a quiet, raspy voice says from the doorway.

I spin around and see Oliver leaning against the frame for support. He looks incredibly pale, his hair is messier than usual, and his shirt is torn down the left side, covered in drywall dust and stained with blood.

“…Oliver?”

And that’s when my stupid brain connects, and the reality of what happened hits me. Oliver went to save my mother. He then went back for Fer, ran outside where he took a bullet for Carlitos, and brought them all here safely…

Oliver saved my family’s life.

“Yes. I… umm… I told them, you know, that we are friends… and that as a friend I was there to help,” he rambles nervously. “And thank God your mom believed me, because I sounded like a crazy person when I introduced myself—”

I cross the room immediately, and completely ignoring the fact that my mother and sister are watching, I reach out and frame Oliver’s bruised face with both hands, my fingers digging into his hair, and press my mouth against his.

Oliver lets out a muffled gasp of surprise against my lips.

“Oh, my—” my mother says, while Fernanda gasps, “Holy fudge!”

I can feel Oliver’s body tense against me.

He is probably freaking out that I am kissing him in front of my family, and I know I should let him go, but I’m just so happy he’s in my arms. I am so glad everyone is alive, and it is all thanks to him.

I break the kiss, and he tries to move away, but I refuse to let him go.

I keep my palms pressed against his cheeks, my thumbs softly stroking his cheekbones as I look directly into his hazel eyes and smile.

“Oliver is not my friend, Mamá. He’s my boyfriend,” I say, and Ollie’s pale cheeks turn almost as red as his bloody shirt.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he mumbles so low I can barely hear him. “I know you said never to mix your worlds, but you weren’t answering, and there was no time to get the Harknetts, and I just had to run and get to your mom.”

“You did perfectly. You kept them alive.”

“Barely.”

“Thank you, mi cielo,” I say, and kiss his forehead, ignoring the shock on my family’s faces… especially since they know what it means to call your partner that pet name.

“My sister said you got shot? Where? Let me see.” I step back just enough to inspect his side, my fingers gently tracing the edges of his torn clothing.

Oliver winces, hissing through his teeth as I lift the bloody sleeve. He has a sterile gauze patch taped over his arm. I lean in close, inspecting the edge of the dressing.

The blood is drying, and the skin around it isn’t swollen.

“It’s just a graze,” Fernanda says from behind me. “The round skimmed the tissue and a bit of muscle, but it missed the bone entirely.”

“That’s good. Why is he so pale?”

“He lost a good amount of blood on the drive here because the stubborn man refused to stop until we arrived,” Fernanda explains. “Any other questions, or are you finally going to explain what the hell you meant by ‘he’s my boyfriend’?”