Chapter 18 Eamon #2
I'd been drifting—pain dulled enough that sleep came in genuine waves instead of medication-forced unconsciousness. Still, something kept pulling me back to the surface.
Want.
It had been building since I first woke up after the gunshot. Since Mac's hand first touched mine, and I knew I was alive.
We'd survived, and I wanted to feel it.
"You're thinking too loud," I said.
Mac smiled. "Sorry."
"What about?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"How different everything is," he said finally. "Three weeks ago, I was performing every interaction, treating my life like a tactical situation." He looked at our hands, almost touching on the blanket. "Now I'm sitting here planning a future I didn't think I'd get to have."
"Is that good different?"
"Yeah, really good."
The monitor beeped. His thumb moved—barely, just a fraction—and brushed against my knuckles through the thin blanket.
We'd been cautious since the shooting. His kisses were tender and restrained, as if I were something fragile. The injury had created a distance neither of us knew how to cross.
Fortunately, in the last day, the medication dosage eased. The pain had dulled to manageable. And Mac's thumb kept moving against my hand—slow and deliberate.
"They disconnected the IV earlier," I said. "For PT."
He looked where the line had been—just a needle cap now, no tubing.
"How's the pain?" he asked.
"Manageable."
"That's not the same as good."
"Good enough." I smiled at him. "For what I'm thinking about."
Color crept up his neck. "Eamon—"
"I'm cleared for light activity. The therapist said so." I shifted slightly, making space. "And I've been lying here for three days thinking about how I could've died without—"
Mac stood. Moved to the door and checked the small window to the hallway. The corridor stretched empty and dim. He flipped off the overhead light.
Lamplight remained, a soft amber glow.
When he returned to the bed, his expression was unreadable.
"Tell me if it hurts," he said quietly.
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He sat on the edge of the bed, and he touched my face.
"I keep feeling like parts of me aren't mine anymore," I admitted. "Like the shooting took something, and I don't know how to get it back."
"What parts?"
"Control. Certainty." Our gazes connected. "The belief that my body does what I tell it to."
Understanding flickered across his face. He leaned in and kissed me slow. Not demanding. His mouth against mine, with our breath mingling. His taste was familiar—real.
When he pulled back, he nuzzled my neck.
"Let me give you something back," he whispered. "Let me show you you're still whole."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah, please."
His hand moved from my face to my chest—palm flat over my heart, feeling it beat. Strong. Steady. Alive. Then lower, tracing ribs.
The lamplight caught in his hair. His eyes were dark, dilated, and focused entirely on me.
"Just you," he said quietly. "No agenda. No transaction. Just—this. Us. Proof you're still here."
His hand slipped under the blanket's hem. Paused.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
He shifted closer, angling his body beside mine on the narrow bed—mindful of the shoulder. His free hand cupped my face while the other slipped beneath the blanket.
The first touch was—
God.
Gentle. Patient. His palm against skin that had forgotten what it felt like to be touched with want instead of clinical assessment. My body responded—immediate, desperate. Part of me stirred noticeably beneath the blanket.
"Don't," Mac said, reading my face. "Don't apologize for being alive."
"I'm not—"
"You were about to." He kissed me softly. "You're allowed. It's yours. You're here."
His hand moved, and his fingers slowly wrapped around my half-hard cock. He stroked, building rhythm slow and steady. No rush.
I tried to reach for him—reciprocate, give back—but he caught my wrist.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet. This is about you being here and being whole. Let me. You did it for me. Now, I'm offering it to you."
I pulled my hand back.
I let myself feel without managing what it looked like from the outside. Let Mac's hand work sure and patient while his lips kissed my jaw, my neck, and the hollow beneath my ear.
The monitors beeped their rhythm. My breathing came faster. Mac's hand stayed confident—slowly picking speed and then pausing while I gasped to catch my breath.
"There," he whispered against my skin. "Just feel it. You're alive. We're alive."
The pleasure built—from deep inside. Undeniable. Mac did something with his thumb that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His other hand stayed on my face, grounding me, keeping me present in my own skin.
"That's it," he breathed. "I've got you."
And I—
I let go.
Let the wracking orgasm take me. My body remembered that it was mine and could feel good things. The trauma hadn't stolen everything. Mac's hand worked me through it—patient, reverent—until I was panting and shaking.
He pulled his hand back. Reached for tissues on the bedside table and cleaned us both with quiet efficiency. Then he settled beside me—close, protective, his forehead pressed to my temple.
We breathed together. Outside, Seattle slept under winter darkness.
"Thank you," I said finally. Voice wrecked.
"For what?"
"For giving me back myself."
"You were always yours," he whispered. "I only reminded you."
Mac closed his eyes. Sleep pulled at both of us.
I didn't fight it.
Together, we slept.
***
I woke to weak winter sunlight and Mac still beside me—not in the chair but on the bed where he'd fallen asleep, shoes off, hand still tangled with mine beneath the blanket.
His eyes opened. Blue-green in the morning light. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself."
I squeezed his hand. "It might be too early, but I had an idea come to me. Early this morning, around four. Couldn't sleep."
Mac looked at me, waiting.
"What if I built something?" I said. "A firm.
Security, personal protection, threat assessment.
But I don't hire from the usual pools—ex-military, ex-cops.
I look for people who are good at what they do but stuck in jobs that don't use their talents.
The bartender who reads people like a book.
The retail manager who can de-escalate any situation. The barista who notices everything."
I shifted slightly, testing how the words sounded out loud.
"My firm trains them. Gives them skills they don't have—tactical driving, close protection, surveillance detection.
That's important, but they were hired for what they already know.
For their instincts." I looked at him. "People like that, they're hungry for something that matters.
They'd be loyal. Committed. Not merely collecting a paycheck. "
Mac was very still.
"I don't know about funding yet," I continued. "Or what I'd call it. But the concept—finding talent where no one else is looking, building a team that actually gives a shit—that feels right."
I stopped. Waited.
Mac stared at me. His expression was unreadable.
Silence stretched between us. Outside, snow fell.
He didn't say anything at all.