Chapter Six
~ Josiah ~
The first real light of morning lanced through the window, burning the world gold and cold, and I watched it move across the valley from the balcony above my shop.
If I leaned out, I could see the river flashing silver in the tree line, but most of my attention stayed fixed inside—on the man asleep in my bed, arms curled tight around the blanket like he was trying to fuse himself into the mattress.
Bodean looked younger with his guard down. Almost sweet, if you didn’t count the bruising that knifed across one cheek or the scab at the corner of his mouth.
He’d kicked the covers off during the night, so now the entire right half of him was exposed, pale skin crisscrossed with the tattooed ghosts of pine trees and thunderbirds.
The early light found the line of his jaw, the soft sweep of collarbone above the faded plaid shirt I’d left for him. His hair—always too wild, always a little too long—was a halo on the pillow, every strand catching sunlight like the aftermath of an explosion.
For a long time, I didn’t move. I stood there, coffee in hand, feeling the weight of my own hunger beat itself up against my ribs.
Not just the want—though there was plenty of that, ugly and pure—but a deeper, heavier need to keep him exactly where he was.
Safe. Still. For the first time in years, not looking for the nearest exit.
He shifted under the blanket, arm thrown over his eyes, a low sound leaking out from behind his teeth. I wondered if he was having a nightmare, if he’d bolt upright and claw his way out of the sheets, but instead he just rolled to the other side and buried his face in the crook of his elbow.
I let myself breathe again.
I’d never been a man who liked taking things I didn’t earn, but with Bo, the temptation to just reach out and claim him—to put a hand on the back of his neck, or maybe just crawl into bed and let him feel how steady I could be—was almost impossible to ignore.
Instead, I did what I always did. I made a plan.
I set my mug on the windowsill, took another look at the way the sun kissed the curve of Bo’s exposed shoulder, and made myself move. I went to the kitchen, started breakfast, and kept an eye on him the whole time.
My place was small, but I liked it that way. Everything had its spot: cast iron pans lined up on the rack, knives hanging point-down over the butcher block. Even the salt and pepper shakers were lined up like they’d been told to stand at attention.
When I started cooking, the world shrank down to sizzle and smoke and the smell of strong, dark coffee winding its way through the apartment.
I cracked eggs into a bowl, beat them with a fork, and poured them into the skillet.
They hissed, yellow and loud, as the bacon spat fat and salt onto the stove top.
The toast went down, the coffee maker burped another shot of espresso, and through all of it I kept one ear tuned to the bedroom—waiting for the sound of Bo waking up, or the quiet shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood.
He didn’t come out. He didn’t even poke his head around the corner to watch me work. I let a smile pull at my mouth, slow and dangerous. Maybe he was waiting for permission.
When everything was plated and perfect, I took the tray back to the bedroom. The smell of food must’ve worked its way in, because now he was awake—sort of—propped up on one elbow, eyes puffy and red-rimmed but fixed on me with a look that was equal parts challenge and desperation.
I set the tray on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd him.
“Sit up,” I said. Not a question.
He did, without so much as a flinch. The blanket slipped off his chest, baring a scatter of fresh bruises and the bruising blue-black tattoo that covered his right arm from wrist to shoulder. He eyed the food, but waited, lips pressed tight.
I poured him a cup of coffee—black, just the way he liked it—and handed it over. “Drink.”
He did, both hands wrapped around the mug, and for a second the world felt so quiet I could hear the click of the old clock on the wall. He took a long pull, then another, eyes sliding shut as he swallowed.
“Eat,” I said, voice softer but not any less certain.
He started in on the eggs, scarfing them down like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
I let him go for a minute, watching the color creep back into his face and the tightness around his mouth ease, just a little.
He moved slow and careful, like he was waiting for me to change my mind and yank the tray away.
“You always this bossy?” he muttered, not quite looking at me.
“Only with people who listen,” I shot back.
That earned me the faintest smile, a real one, not the broken-tooth grin he used on everyone else. He tore a strip of bacon in half, shoved it in his mouth, then turned to me and asked, “So what’s the deal, Moxley? You running a recovery ward now, or did I just get lucky?”
I took my time answering. “You’re staying put. At least for the day. That’s not negotiable.”
He let his head loll back against the headboard, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “You always did like giving orders.”
“Somebody has to.”
He huffed, but the noise was more fond than pissed. He sipped his coffee again, then reached for the toast. I watched his hands, watched the way they trembled when he let his guard down.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The city was waking up outside, but in here it was just two men, a bed, and the smell of breakfast curling around the sheets.
I reached over, brushed a crumb off his cheek.
He didn’t pull away.
“Bodean” I said, and his eyes flicked to mine, dark and sharp.
“Yeah?”
“You’re safe,” I said, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything but eat and rest. Understood?”
He looked at me like he wanted to argue, but then the fight drained out of him, and he nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”
I watched him eat, the hunger in his eyes matching something hot and ugly in my own chest. The sunlight was climbing higher now, turning the room bright and new. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted something this bad.
Maybe never.
When the food was gone and the coffee was cold, he set the tray aside and let himself sink back into the pillows. He looked at me, gaze steady.
“So what now?” he asked.
I stood, then leaned down to tuck the blanket up around his shoulders. My hands lingered for a second, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiate off his skin.
“Now,” I said, “you sleep. I’ll be right here.”
He nodded, eyelids already drooping. The bruise on his cheek caught the light, ugly but somehow perfect, like every piece of damage made him more real.
I watched him drift, watched his body go loose and heavy under the quilt, and let myself imagine what it would be like to hold him all the way through the night. To wake up with that wild, dangerous thing curled against my chest, breathing easy for once.
My hands itched to touch him, to press down and remind him whose bed he was in. But I kept them to myself. For now.
I sat by the window and watched the sun crawl across the floor, counting every second until he woke up again and I could start over.
This was what I was built for. Not the chaos of the world, not the noise of engines or the roar of wind through the valley. But this: the slow, steady discipline of keeping something precious alive.
When Bo opened his eyes again, hours later, I’d be right where I’d promised. And maybe—if he asked—I’d tell him everything I’d been waiting to say.
When I came back in from my rounds in the shop, the loft was hushed. The only sound was the click of the heating baseboard and the slow, even rhythm of Bo’s breath from the bedroom.
The rest of the world could have collapsed and I wouldn’t have noticed. Not with him here, tucked under my blanket like something I’d carried home from the woods.
I paused in the kitchen, poured two mugs of coffee, and lined up the bottles of painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories on the counter. I set everything up in a row, exact and straight, then went back to the bedroom with both cups balanced in my hands.
He was awake, eyes open, the color in his face back to something like normal. His hair had fallen into his eyes and his lips were split from sleep, a flush on his cheeks from the heat.
When I set the coffee down on the nightstand, he rolled onto his back, gaze tracking me with a focus that made the skin on my arms prickle.
“Sit up.” I didn’t mean for it to come out like a command, but it did.
He did it, no hesitation, and the blanket fell to his lap. The blue-black tattoo sleeve caught the light, and the way he flexed his hand as he reached for the mug, careful not to spill, made me want to grab his wrist and keep it still.
Instead, I handed him the pills. “Take these. Every eight hours. No doubling up, even if you think you need it.”
He popped them in his mouth and swallowed, then chased it with a gulp of coffee. “No double-dosing,” he echoed, voice rough.
“Good.” I put my own mug down and reached over, gently tilting his head to the side so I could check the stitches on his face. The urge to do more—press my fingers into the line of his jaw, hold him there—was so strong it took a second to remember why I’d started.
I let my thumb drift over the bandage, checking for swelling. He was watching me, pupils blown wide, but he held perfectly still, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.
“Still hurts?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not bad, though. Just… sore.” He let out a slow breath, lips parted, but he didn’t look away.
I traced along the stitches again, slower, then let my hand drop. “You’ll live.”
“Lucky me,” he said, but there was no bite to it. Just a kind of dazed relief, like he couldn’t believe he was still in one piece.
I stepped back, needing space. “Come on. Kitchen. You need real food.”
He slid out of bed, careful, then stood there for a second, blanket hanging off one shoulder like he didn’t know what to do with himself.