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“Yeah, I said it.” I laugh. “Fuck.” I blow a breath out. I just sort of said I love him.
I can feel him take a deep breath. Then he lifts his head, peering down at me with wide, red-rimmed eyes.
“Who? Tell me.” I run a hand into his hair, and once again, he won’t meet my eyes.
“You wanna push me away, disengage and just end this shit every time it crosses your mind that it’s too much for me. That it’s a hardship for me—how you feel. You realize you’re the one that’s hurt, but you think it’s too much for me? I’m not a fucking weak guy. I know I might look like I am.” I laugh.
He shakes his head, looking into my eyes again. “You look perfect, Miller.”
“You look perfect.” I stroke my fingers over his neck, and Ez shuts his eyes.
“I fucking hate it, thinking no one made you feel the way you should feel. Dude, you’re a prince. I love where this is going between us.”
“I don’t get why, though.” He bows his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
“Because I’m into you. That’s why. There’s no other why. I just…want you,” I rasp. “I want you near me. I want to see you feeling good. Because I do. When I see this look in your eyes” —I stroke his eyelid softly with my fingertip— “it hurts me. Like, it actually hurts my chest.”
His eyes flit up to mine, but this time they’re flat and hard. “I know, that’s what I’m saying. Cut the cord, man.”
“I don’t want to.” I groan. “I don’t want to cut the fucking cord. I’m not scared. I’m not bothered. I promise,” I say, hating how I’m fumbling over my words. “Let me be your—I don’t know. Your bungee cord.”
He wipes his eyes, looking away again. Then he rolls away from me and hugs one of my pillows. He blows a heavy breath out, and I stretch out behind him. My lips brush his shoulder. “Listen, bruh. I’m strong enough for all your stuff.” When he doesn’t move, I add on, “If you don’t want to talk more, don’t. Just tell me if you’re okay right now. Whatever pill you took before football yesterday, that made you overheat? Is that stuff out of your system?”
I press my cheek against his shoulder, wrap him up from behind.
“It’s okay now,” he says, quiet.
“Is it? You feel okay?” My hand sifts through his hair.
He nods.
“Do you need to take something today?” I ask him gently.
He shakes his head.
“It wasn’t chicken pox,” he whispers. He holds his hand up. It takes my brain a half second to see the scars, remember what he told me.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
He’s so still in my arms. With my arm still wrapped around him, I feel for his hand, closing mine around it.
“I had an MRI before. And got put under a ton of times. I didn’t tell you, did I? I didn’t stay for when you woke up.” His voice goes hoarse on that. He swallows. “Find someone who does, Mills. Find somebody better.”
I can fucking tell he’s gonna bolt, so I tighten my grip on him. Then, on a whim, I crawl over his body, lying in front of him so I can see his face.
“Listen to me.” I kiss his throat—a little hard kiss that leaves a hickey.
His eyes well as I lift my head. “I’m not upset about that. Anymore,” I tack on. “It’s in the past. That’s not my concern.” And now my eyes are welling with his. I swallow hard, so my voice sounds clear. “You got put under…tons of times?” I choke out.
His eyes shut, and one tear slides down his cheek. “I’m messed up. I told you.”
“Were you alone at that place?”
His lips twist as he rubs at his eyes. “They don’t let you bring a buddy.”
He shifts onto his back, closing his eyes, putting an arm over them, and I think of him when he first got here—how thin he was. How angry. Hostile.
Why would they put him to sleep? God—what happened?
“Does Carl know about it?”
“No,” he says, moving his arm so he can look at me. “And don’t tell him. He doesn’t know, and it would kill him if he did.”
I notice that language. He doesn’t want to hurt me—he’s said so in a dozen ways—and he thinks whatever happened to him would kill his dad? Fuck! My chest aches like it’s ripping.
“How did your mom get away with that?” I rasp.
“Full custody,” he says simply. “You see? You can see why I’m not a match for someone like you?”
He holds up his left arm. “All of these are…needles,” he rasps. “Some of them, I did to myself. Just to feel it. That’s how fucked up I was. Still am.”
