Chapter 15 – Bells
BELLS
The breakfast Phoenix made looks incredible. Smells incredible too. It's the kind of comfort food that makes you want to curl up in a warm blanket and pretend the world outside doesn't exist.
Too bad I can barely taste any of it.
My brain is too busy. It's fixated on Rex's weight beside me on the couch, warm and solid despite the hollow look in his eye.
The fact I woke up with my head and hand on his chest and him staring blankly at the ceiling.
The fuzzy handcuff chain connecting our wrists, clinking every time one of us shifts.
It's always me moving, because he's like a fucking zombie right now. Phoenix and Raf's worried glances from across the coffee table.
I take a bite of eggs. Chew. Swallow. The motions are automatic, disconnected from anything resembling appetite.
Rex still hasn't touched his plate.
It's sitting in his lap where Phoenix put it, slowly going cold. Every few seconds, Phoenix's gaze darts to it, then away, like it's killing him to not physically pick up the fork and shove food in Rex's mouth.
"The bacon's really good," I offer, snagging a piece from Rex's plate since mine is already decimated. "Phoenix outdid himself."
Nothing.
Rex doesn't even blink. Just sits there, that single visible eye fixed on some middle distance I can't see, his body present but his mind somewhere dark.
I shift on the couch, and the movement brings our thighs into contact. Rex doesn't pull away. Doesn't react at all, actually, which is somehow more concerning than if he'd flinched.
Phoenix catches my eye from across the room. He doesn't have to speak to ask the question written all over his face.
What do we fucking do?
I don't have answers. All I have is proximity and stubbornness and a growing certainty that leaving Rex alone right now would be catastrophically bad.
"So Raf," I say, forcing my voice to stay casual so we're not just sitting here in complete dead silence, "you never answered. The fuzzy handcuffs. The vampire romance novels. What other secrets is that nightstand hiding?"
Rafael chokes on his coffee. "There's nothing—"
"Probably research for his aesthetic," Phoenix says, grinning for the first time this morning.
Raf growls. "Fuck off, both of you."
"The growling, too," Phoenix adds. "Didn't you have composite fangs at one point?"
"I did," Raf grits out. "Because I broke a tooth in a fist fight. If they were going to fix it anyway, might as well do something cool."
Phoenix reaches over and pushes up Raf's lip with the tip of his finger. Raf snaps at the air like he's going to bite Phoenix's hand off and Phoenix yanks it back just in time with a low cackle. "They don't look as fang-y now."
"Because they wore down, dude."
I manage a laugh. I'm so drained, nothing is truly funny right now, but the light, stupid banter feels better than—
Rex's hand moves.
It's the first voluntary movement he's made since we sat down. His fingers shift against my thigh like he's not even aware he's doing it.
My heart stutters.
I don't stop talking. Don't even pause. Just keep giving Raf shit about being a vampire while my free hand drifts down to meet Rex's halfway.
Our fingers brush.
Rex goes still. His eye, which has been unfocused and distant, suddenly sharpens. Drops to where our hands are touching.
He stares.
Just... stares at my fingers resting against his knuckles. Like he's never seen a hand before. Like he's trying to understand what it means that I'm touching him voluntarily, without flinching, without pulling away.
I trace my fingers across Rex's knuckles. Light, barely there, the kind of touch you could pretend didn't happen if you needed to.
Rex doesn't pretend.
Slowly—so fucking slowly I almost miss it—his hand turns over against mine. Palm up, fingers uncurling like a flower opening to sunlight.
An invitation.
I accept it without hesitation, lacing my fingers through his. His hand is so much larger than mine, rougher, calloused from years of guitar. It swallows my fingers whole.
And then he leans slightly in my direction, like gravity has decided to pull him toward me instead of the floor. His shoulder brushes mine. Then presses against it. The handcuff chain goes slack as the distance between us shrinks to nothing.
I don't acknowledge it. Don't look at him, don't comment, don't do anything that might spook him into retreating. Just keep joking with Raf and Phoenix about how Raf would look hot with fangs, actually, and he should have them sharpened again.
Then—impossibly—Rex's rigidity melts away. He relaxes against me, his weight settling into my side like he's finally stopped fighting gravity.
His head tips toward my shoulder.
I hold my breath.
It happens in slow motion. Rex's head dropping, his forehead finding the curve where my shoulder meets my neck, his choppy black hair falling forward to obscure his face completely. His breath ghosts across my skin in a shaky, exhausted exhale.
Now it's my turn to freeze. When he doesn't move again, I carefully rest my cheek against the top of his head to reassure him this is okay.
As Raf and Phoenix keep talking, my hand comes up without conscious permission.
Finds his hair. The strands are soft beneath my fingers, somehow softer than I expected.
I card through them gently, finding his scalp, scratching lightly the way you'd pet a feral cat that's finally decided to trust you.
Rex makes a soft sound, not much more than an exhale, and his body goes loose against mine.
Phoenix is staring now, jaw hanging open.
I catch his eye and give a tiny shake of my head. Don't say a word. Don't draw attention. Just let this happen.
He closes his mouth. Nods once.
The conversation dies a natural death. No one seems to know how to fill the silence, and I'm too focused on the steady rhythm of my fingers through Rex's hair to try. The handcuff chain pools on the cushion between us, forgotten.
Minutes pass.
Rex's breathing slows. Deepens. Evens out into something that sounds almost like…
He's asleep.
Rex, who doesn't trust anyone, is asleep on my fucking shoulder.
He must be fucking exhausted. I know he didn't sleep last night. When I opened my eyes, he was just… watching me.
His arm shifts. Slides forward across my thighs, his hand curling loosely around my waist. The touch is light, almost accidental, like his body is seeking contact his conscious mind would never allow.
I think it might be an accident. Reflex. Something his sleeping brain did without permission.
But he doesn't pull away. And neither do I.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. Phoenix and Raf's phones follow suit a second later. Rex doesn't stir. He's out cold, his weight heavy and warm against my side, his arm still draped across my lap like an anchor.
"Carmine," Phoenix says, reading from his screen. His voice is barely above a whisper, like he's afraid of waking Rex. "Emergency meeting at the studio. Two hours."
We don't have to discuss it to know what this is about. The leaked photos. The Internet shitstorm. The fact that Rex's unmasked face is currently trending on every social media platform with comments that make me sick when I think about it.
"Guess we'd better get ready," Raf says, running a hand through his hair. "Face the music and all that."
Phoenix manages a snort at the pun. "Did you really just—"
"I'm coping with humor. Just let me have this."
I look down at Rex's sleeping form. At the way his fingers have curled into the fabric of the hoodie—his hoodie—at my hip. At the slow rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath whispering against my skin.
"We should probably..." Phoenix gestures vaguely at us, at the handcuffs, at Rex's current state of using me as a human pillow. "I mean, Carmine's going to expect—"
"Rex shows up," I interrupt. "That's all that matters. We get him there, we deal with whatever comes next."
Rex's arm tightens fractionally around my waist. Even asleep, some part of him is holding on.
I keep stroking his hair. "We'll figure it out."