We’re silent after that. I check out his eye, wondering what the likelihood of him having ice in that kitchenette might be, before moving to his bloody knuckles. He hisses just as badly when I run the wipes over them. For someone who clearly gets some level of gratification from getting into fights, he sure is a big baby when it comes to the aftercare.
Once I’ve tended to his wounds to the best of my abilities, I put all the supplies away.
And then I start undressing.
He watches me shuck off my shirt, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “The fuck?”
“Take off your clothes,” I tell him, nodding to his pants. “And where did your shirt even go?”
He obeys me like someone paying very little mind to why, fingers going to the button on his jeans as he watches me shimmy my pants and underwear off. “Couldn’t find it fast enough. We had to bail.” Even though his pants are undone, he’s still sitting on the counter, looking at me with a baffled expression.
Naked, I stand there and nudge at his knee. “Come on, get down.” He complies in a slow, stilted way, tossing his cigarette butt in the sink before sliding to his feet. There aren’t any protests when I reach out toward his hips, tugging his pants and boxers down his legs.
I pause, staring at his erection in disbelief.
“You’re the one who wanted to get naked,” is his weak defense. “The whole bloody and beaten thing turn you on or something?”
“Yep,” I answer tonelessly. “In fact, I’m about to get soaking wet for you.”
Understanding dawns on his face when I reach in the shower, turning the knob with a jerk of my wrist.
“Come on,” I say, dragging him under the spray of the shower.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that he hasn’t touched me.
Not once.
His eyes watch me the entire time I clean him, running a wet, soapy rag across his chest, over his throat, his neck. Even when he tilts his head back under the spray, letting me strain up against him to lather some shampoo into his hair, he still looks on, like he’s in some weird, exhaustion-induced daze.
“You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”
“You don’t have to take care of me, either.” I make him turn so I can run the cloth over his broad, muscled back. “But I feel like maybe you do.”
When he turns back, some of the ache constricting my chest begins to ease at the sight of him, bruised but whole. I sweep a palm down his chest, checking my work, finding it satisfactory. With the task completed, I feel adrift, wondering where I should go from here. I hadn’t really been thinking beyond ‘Sebastian’ and ‘hurt’.
When our eyes meet, I know what he’s going to ask before he even does. It’s there, in the way he looks cautious and lost.
“Can I touch you?”
I can’t even remember the last time he asked me that. Probably not since that night in his backseat. Ever since, he’s just done it, pretty much banking on the fact he could. It’s all at once a relief and a jagged wound, seeing him transformed into this quiet, careful man who’s disinclined to brush up against a boundary he might not be privy to.
It’s simple to answer, “Yes.”
He touches my cheek first, wet thumb brushing over the skin, soft as a whisper. He looks like maybe he’s expecting me to flinch, but I don’t. There’s no fear here, involuntary or otherwise, just a sense of release. My eyes slide closed when his fingers thread into the hair behind my ear, palm cupping my cheek. It’s not like I haven’t been touched since that awful fucking day. The girls have been feeding me touches in small, measured doses for the last week.
But this is just different.
I hear him sigh, right before his palm moves to the back of my head. He effortlessly pulls me into him, arm coming around my shoulders to hold me close. The feel of our chests pressed together is like being wrapped in a large pulse of warmth. My shoulders hitch, knees trembling at the feel of him against me.
Fuck, he knows I like that.
Not fair.
His skin is clean-smelling, wet and warm against my cheek. I feel his nose nudge into my hair, lips moving against my temple when he speaks. “This mean you forgive me?”
“Sebastian,” I warn, hands fisting against his back even as I melt into him. “You really fucked me up.” I hate the way my voice breaks, eyes welling with tears.
“It wasn’t true,” he says urgently, arms crushing me closer. “Heston would have—”
It’s not enough. “I know you didn’t mean it, but that’s not the point. You fight—you fight all the fucking time—but you didn’t fight for me. You just threw me away. You gave up.”
His chest sinks with a long exhale, breath damp against my temple. “It didn’t feel like that. It felt like I was tearing myself in fucking half, just to keep you safe. I know it doesn’t matter. You’re right, I should have—I fought the wrong way. I get that now.”
“Do you?” I wonder.
He pulls away, taking my face in his hands. If I hoped my tears might be lost in the water, then it’s futile. His face falls when he looks at me, jaw going taut. “I talked to my dad tonight.” Despite knowing he must be minutes from collapsing with fatigue, he’s suddenly surging with energy. “I was there for hours, talking him out of bailing Heston’s ass out of this.” His eyes are beseeching. “I made a plan, okay? I’m going to go to college somewhere he approves of. I’m going to stop fighting. I’m going to get back on the team. I’m going to be the picture-perfect little robot he wants me to be, and he’ll do it. He’ll let my brother fall.”
I look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare. “You don’t want to go to college.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says, chasing my gaze. “This is how I’m fighting now.”
“You already said, Sebastian. You want to travel. You won’t be happy like that.” I don’t voice my real fear—that if he’s doing this for me, he’ll end up resenting me for it. That’ll it be too much to live up to.
“You’re wrong,” he insists, voice strong and sure. “Wherever you go, I’ll go to the closest school. That’ll make me happy.” He huffs at my expression. “Don’t give me that look. Listen to me. I’ll be nineteen in two months. I have plenty of time to travel. Plus, we can take a road trip this summer. Think about it,” he asks, eyes full of excited fire. “You and me, the Shelby—or hell, the Mustang. We can just fuck off for three months. We can go anywhere we want. We can do it every summer. Every vacation. I don’t fucking care, just as long as I do it with you.”
I search his eyes, and the thing is, that sting is still there, like a scab on my heart. It’s the reminder of his words, still stirring the nagging doubt that I’m not enough—not for him. That he’s too fine to hold, like grains of sand running right through my fingers. That he’ll get bored of me, distracted by something shinier.
But scabs can heal, and if I don’t shine brightly enough, then maybe I’ll just burn.
Sand can be made solid if it’s hot enough.
The kiss I give him isn’t anywhere as gentle as it should be. If it hurts the soft, bruised parts of him, then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he pushes me back against the tiles, licking hotly—frantically—at the crease of my lips.