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His angrily spat out words feel like acid on my heart. Knowing he was hurting so much he attempted suicide wounds deep. He was devastated and his soul ached. The pain he felt must’ve been overwhelming and immense.
I need to see him.
All of him.
To tell him he’s worthy of happiness and love.
That he has a family who cares about him deeply.
I want to do this while touching his cheeks and looking at his lips.
He tenses when I reach up. My hand visibly trembles. I touch the edge of his mask, earning me a hitch of his breath. As my finger slips beneath it, his scruff tickling my flesh, he grabs onto my forearm to stop me.
“Don’t.” His word is croaked out. Not demanding and fierce. It’s a plea, desperate and raw. “Please.”
I ache to rip it away and see him—all of him—ugly scars and everything.
My curiosity can wait, though. He’s letting me in, despite this morning’s tantrum, and I’m not going to jeopardize that.
Funky meows at my feet, having explored enough, and I reluctantly drop my hand. Breaking our stare, I squat to pick up my cat. Jude clears his throat and then walks into the opening that leads to a small room. It’s cozy with an extremely dated sectional couch with patched and repaired fabric, an old TV from the ’80s or ’90s, and a record player sitting on top of the TV. There are dusty, built-in shelves in the room lined with old records. The one and only window is small, round, and made of stained glass.
“What is this place?”
“Used to be Grandpa’s man cave,” Jude says, making his way over to a shelf to peruse the records. “Sit.”
I carry Funky over to the sectional and sit on one end. He rubs his head against my neck, his purring the only sound in the room. Jude takes his time before settling on a record. He plucks it from its spot, pulls it from the sleeve, and then places it on the record player. Seconds later, the sound of classic rock plays softly.
“The Doors?”
Jude nods and sets the empty record sleeve down. Then he cautiously makes his way over to me and Funky. He sits down awfully close to me, which has my heart sputtering with awareness.
His scent—manly and intense in this small space.
His nearness, tangible and real.
His touch as he also pets Funky, our fingers brushing against one another.
“It’s quiet up here,” I tell him, searching his gaze. “A good place to hide out.”
“I still come up here often,” he admits. “It’s peaceful.”
“Thank you for showing me your secret place.”
Another chuff behind the mask. “Tate Prince, are you flirting with me?”
His playful words stun me stupid. I gape at him, unable to respond.
“Who is this guy and what did you do with my grumpy jerk?”
The teasing glint in his eyes fades and his eyes close. “I was more than a jerk this morning. I was a complete asshole.”
“You really were,” I mutter, voice raw with honesty. “It wasn’t my favorite part of today.”
“What was your favorite?” he quickly tosses back. “Seeing Callum?”
I snort out a laugh. “Why? Jealous?”
For fuck’s sake. Iamflirting with him.
