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More than anything else.
“I’m sorry I was saying shit about your family.”
“You were angry.” Archer hip-bumps a lower cupboard closed and begins pouring orange juice into a glass. “You were testing me to see how far I’d let you take it.”
“I was swiping at you because I was pissed. The guy I kinda had feelings for was dating a cat. But I didn’t know she was a cat.”
Snorting, he begins pouring a second glass for himself. “Your swipes were working. You made me angry, too. Knowing my past doesn’t make you superior or exempt from the repercussions, Minka. It means you know too much, and if you don’t shut your mouth about it, maybe word will spread, and the wrong kinda people will come to pay you a visit.”
When I study him through curious eyes, he brings his back to me and crosses the room with a glass of juice in each hand. “I’ll protect you. I’ll step between you and them a million times over. But you’d be doing me a solid if you stopped talking shit about it in the first place.”
“I’m sorry.” Smiling, I reach up and accept the glass he hands me. “I’ll stop now.”
“Because you got laid?” Dropping down on the couch, he pulls our blanket up to cover his lap. “Or because you know Chloe is a cat and not a person?”
“Because I know you’re vulnerable to me, too.” Setting my juice on the table and leaning closer to Archer, I present my lips and grin when he closes the gap and takes them with his own.
“I don’t know what will come of this,” I murmur. “And I don’t really believe in relationships. But I believe in truth and trust and doing my best.”
“So…” His sparkling green eyes search mine. “What?”
“So I’m gonna stop swiping at you, I’ll probably wanna have sex exclusively with you for the next little while. And the rest…” Lifting a shoulder, I sit back and drag my bag onto my lap. “The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along.”
“Works for me.” He smirks and snags the laptop. “What’s in your bag?”
“Trust.” Opening it, I take out my factor pack and breathe through a whole new vulnerability. “You were right—I infused on the sixteenth of December. But I had to have extra, after the day with Tribble. Which means my schedule was bumped.”
I take out the box of medication, already working their way toward room temperature, and attempt to hide the way my hands shake. “That makes tonight infusion night instead. And since I wanted to spend it with you, and I didn’t want to miss infusion like that other time…” I take out my tourniquet, disinfectant wipes, tape, and cotton balls. “I guess it’s time we normalize this so you can be a little less scared, and I can be a little more real.”
“C—can I help?” Archer takes the vial of powder from my supplies and gently tips it up. “Can I do it for you?”
My heart skips in my chest. “You wanna insert my needle?”
He shakes his head, quick and jerky, so my lips come up in a grin. “Not yet. Not…” He shakes his head again. “No. But maybe I can help you with all the rest. Mixing or whatever.”
“Alright.” I gently take the vial and replace it with alcohol wipes. “Clean your hands thoroughly. I’ll teach you all the steps.”
Eager, he nods and tears the packaging open. He probably should wash his hands at the sink again, but I saw him do it just a few moments before pouring the juice.
“Clean between every finger and in every groove. Make sure your nails are clean and there’s nothing that can transfer infection to me.”
And while he does that, I bring the tourniquet to my arm and set it tight enough to stay put, but not nearly tight enough for its intended purpose.
“Maybe next time, you can do the needle,” I suggest.
He exhales a nervous laugh. “Not sure I’m ever gonna purposely stab you with a fucking needle, Mayet. But I can do the rest. I can…” He looks back down at the vials—one containing powder, and the other, solution. “That’s medicine. It helps. So I can do that bit.” His eyes come back to mine. Deep and dangerous and sweet all at once.
He’s strong and formidable and quite intimidating to anyone he passes in the street. But to me,forme, he gentles himself.
“So, these bottles,” I grab the factor, and then the one with diluent, “they need to be mixed. But gently. No shaking. See that double-ended needle?” I nod toward the small package between us, but I don’t touch it. “Carefully open it and remove a cap from one end.”
“O-okay.” He works with unshaking hands and eyes that glitter with determination. Removing the cap, he looks to me and, I swear, doesn’t even breathe on the exposed steel. “Now what?”
“Remove the cap from the bottle of factor powder.”
But since he’s new at this, and his hands are already busy, I take the cap myself, clean the stopper with a fresh alcohol wipe, then I offer the bottle. “Slide that needle into the top here.”
While he does that, I grab the diluent and repeat my steps. “Then place this one on top.”
