Chapter Sixteen NourishNumb
Chapter sixteen
Nourish or Numb
Trent checked the time again.
Seven fifty-four a.m.
Too early to look desperate. Too late to pretend this was casual.
He shifted on his feet outside Worthbridge Fire Station, gym bag slung over one shoulder, fiddling with the frayed strap.
A fine sheen of sweat clung to the back of his neck, despite the wind.
Not enough sleep. Not enough…anything. His legs felt wrong.
Unsteady, as if they didn’t quite belong to him.
His stomach coiled, not with nerves. At least, not just nerves, but something sharper, more physical.
The early morning air clung to his skin, crisp with salt and smoke and the distant promise of coffee. He was half tempted to sack the whole thing off right then. Grab a flat white and walk away, pretend he didn’t need to do this. Be here.
But he did. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t.
His head buzzed. Skin itched. And a dull ache, deep and persistent, threaded through his spine and shoulders like faulty wiring sparking under pressure. He hadn’t taken anything since—
Since before the car accident.
Since Reece .
Since Reece had fucked him senseless and walked out with the last of his pills, Trent had been slipping.
Spinning. He hadn’t just taken the edge off, he’d taken the whole damn mask.
Torn it clean away. Along with every last blister pack Trent had so carefully stashed. His last thread of control, gone.
It had to be Reece. Who else could it have been?
Dev? No. Dev wouldn’t touch his stuff. Wouldn’t even know what the pills were, let alone how many he needed to get through a shift, a night, a breath.
Dev thought they were leftovers from surgery.
Or a just-in-case for the trauma kit. He never asked. Never looked.
But Reece had been in his room.
Reece had opened that drawer .
Which meant one: he’d seen them.
Two: he knew exactly what they were.
And three…he’d taken them.
To make a point? To force a confrontation? To punish him?
Or maybe for some other reason Trent couldn’t fucking wrap his head around because his thoughts were racing, and his skin wouldn’t stop crawling, and everything was too loud . His mind a mess of fractured noise and questions that didn’t have answers .
He dragged in a breath. It didn’t help. Still tight.
Restless. The morning had stretched far too long already, but then one of the wide red bay doors rumbled open.
The old brick building was solid, square, and as much a part of Worthbridge as the lighthouse and the rusting iron railings along the promenade.
The faint thud of boots echoed from inside, followed by muffled voices and the sharp hiss of laughter.
Trent held his breath.
Reece stepped out.
Motorbike helmet in one hand, jacket half-zipped, hair still damp at the edges, as if he’d washed off the smoke but couldn’t scrub away the night, Reece moved with an exhaustion running deeper than the body. Trent could tell. He’d been there. But more than that…he knew Reece now.
Reece clapped a few hands in farewell, exchanged nods with the lads arriving for shift change, the quiet camaraderie of the job unspoken but understood.
He looked as if he’d slept even less than Trent.
But he also looked…solid. Real. Something Trent could hold onto, if only his hands would stop trembling.
Then Reece turned towards his bike, ready to straddle it.
Trent might lose his chance. Because he couldn’t move.
Scared shitless, he was rooted to the spot.
Then Reece lifted his head.
Saw him.
Fuck .
Trent’s heart gave a painful, traitorous thud, thumping so hard it felt as though it might give him away before he’d even taken a step. But a step he had to take. This was worth fighting through the tremors for.
“Hey,” Trent called, then checked the road before crossing over. “I, er, was heading to the gym. Thought I’d see if you were going too? ”
Pathetic. See-through. Fucking transparent. But it got him here.
Reece looked him over, pausing on the gym bag, then rising to his face, lingering a beat too long. “Uh…no. Sorry. Not really slept since…” He didn’t say ‘since I had to hold you all night’, but Trent felt that was on the tip of his tongue. “I’m beat.”
Trent nodded. “Right. Yeah, I wasn’t sure if I had the changeover time right…” He dragged in a breath, then had to go for the jugular. It was why he was here. “Listen, um. Sorry to ask but, by any chance… did you take something from my drawer?”
Reece didn’t answer right away.
He dropped his gaze to the helmet in his hand, then shifted to the ground between them. “You eaten?”
Trent blinked. “What?”
“Breakfast,” Reece said. “I’m famished.”
Trent glanced towards the cafés along the seafront, where signs were being flipped to open and the smell of fresh bread wafted on the breeze. “You wanna grab something to eat?”
“No. Come back to mine. I’ll cook.”
Trent flinched. Not what he expected. It was better.
“…Okay.” He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Reece popped open the storage box on the back of his bike, then pulled out a spare helmet. He handed it over without a word. Whatever was going on in his head, he wasn’t letting it show.
Trent took the helmet anyway. Put it on.
And when Reece swung his leg over the bike, jacket tugging snug across those broad shoulders, jeans stretched tight over an arse that should’ve come with a warning label, the engine let out a low, guttural snarl, and Trent was very glad for the visor .
It did a decent job of hiding the way he openly gawked.
He got himself in check, then climbed on behind him. Once settled on the seat, he wrapped his arms around Reece’s waist. Maybe a little tighter than needed. Okay, definitely tighter. His palms were already damp.
It brought clarity . And with it, discomfort.
The withdrawal curled low in his gut, sharp and aching.
His stomach pitched like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Because he hadn’t. And his legs trembled where they pressed around Reece.
He didn’t know if it was adrenaline, or something darker and messier rising under his skin.
Probably both. Possibly neither. Just noise. Itch and ache and need.
Then Reece curled his gloved hands around Trent’s wrists, pulling him in tighter, and Trent almost groaned.
Not from the heat of it, the way his body lit up when Reece held him like that, but from the way it steadied him.
Anchored him. And he dropped his chin on Reece’s shoulder. Breathed. Melted into it. Him.
God, that…
That was the best fucking feeling in the world.
Reece gripped the handlebars, shoulders stiffening, as if he wasn’t unaffected either. Then the bike rumbled forward, smooth and powerful beneath them, and carried them into motion. Into wind and salt and morning light.
Trent closed his eyes, letting himself feel it .
The ride along the seafront was wind-bright and bracing.
Trent held tight around Reece’s middle as the Triumph purred under them.
The morning sun had broken above the horizon, spilling golden light across the slate rooftops.
They passed the fishmongers pulling crates off vans, joggers with coffee cups, and early dog walkers still rubbing sleep from their eyes .
Reece dropped his hand once from the handlebars to squeeze Trent’s thigh, and Trent was in danger of welling up it was so good.
But they turned off the main road a few streets inland and pulled into a narrow drive flanked by a crumbling stone wall covered in blackberry bushes.
Small, end of a sloping terrace, and distinctly lived in.
The paint on the door was peeling at the edges, a faded shade of blue.
Reece killed the engine and swung off the bike, then moved to open the garden gate, holding it for Trent as if it was nothing. No ceremony, no words. Thoughtful .
Trent handed him the helmet and looked around, taking it in. Low stone walls, ivy curling wild across the front, a wind chime singing soft above the door, and a ceramic frog wearing a faded Santa hat nestled in a flowerbed surrounded by weeds.
It was… sweet. Lived-in. Loved .
And utterly at odds with the all-leather, sharp-jawed firefighter Trent had met under flashing lights and sirens, who fucked him in alleyways.
This wasn’t where he imagined Reece Morgan came home to.
But somehow, now that he was here, he couldn’t imagine him anywhere else.
Inside, sugar, old tea leaves, and something vaguely floral filled the air.
Trent’s skin prickled. Not from the heat this time, but from that uncomfortable hum beneath it all.
A creeping sense of wrongness in his own body.
He rubbed his palms against his thighs when Reece wasn’t looking.
They wouldn’t stop sweating. His pulse was too fast. Heart hammering against his ribs as if it didn’t trust him anymore.
He hovered awkwardly while Reece moved through his space. The normalcy was blinding. Like looking into sunlight after hours underground. Trent tried to breathe through it. He could handle this. He had to handle this.
“This place is…” He glanced around. “It’s nice.”
Reece peered back at him. “It was my nana’s. Still is, I guess.”
Trent followed Reece down a narrow hallway lined with family photos and mismatched picture frames, each one a little off-centre in the most endearing way.
The kitchen wafted scents of rosemary and something rich and yeasty, and when Reece opened the door, it hit stronger, and the sun filtered through the floral curtains onto a table pushed slightly off-centre to make room for a rack of cast-iron pans hanging above the stove.
This was a kitchen that someone who loved to cook owned.
Just like the one his mum had made Trent’s comfort food in.