Chapter 17 The Wound #2
“Thank you,” he says, and he's not talking about the tea.
“You scared me.” It comes out before I can stop it. “When you called, I thought...”
“I know.” He sets the mug down, reaches for me, fingers brushing my knee. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have worried you.”
“You should have gone to a hospital.”
“I wanted to come here.”
Simple. Devastating.
“Why?” I need to understand. Need to know if this is real or if I'm building castles in sand again.
His thumb traces circles on my knee. “Because you make me feel like I can breathe. When everything else is chaos, you're the thing that makes sense.”
“You barely know me,” I whisper.
“I like what I know.” His voice is quiet, certain. “And I want to know more. All of it.”
“You don't understand.” I pull back slightly, and his hand falls from my knee. “I'm a mess. I have boxes I haven't unpacked in months. I work too much. I overthink everything. I'm not the kind of woman men like you end up with.”
“Men like me?”
“Rich. Successful. Looking like that.” I gesture at him.
“You're the jackpot, Kai. Men like you date models. Actresses. Women who look perfect on magazine covers.” My voice drops.
“Not marketing analysts with trust issues and a studio apartment.
I can't be your temporary fun. My heart can't take it.”
He sets his tea down and shifts closer, ignoring the wince that crosses his face. “You think that's what this is? Temporary fun?”
“I don't know what this is.”
“I don't want anyone else. I want you.”
“You say that now—“
“I mean it now. I'll mean it tomorrow.” He cups my face with his bruised hand. “Emma, I've spent my whole life around people who perform. Who calculate every word, every gesture. You're not like them. When you look at me, I don't have to wonder what you're really thinking. I can just be.”
I search his face for the lie, the manipulation, the angle. All the things James taught me to look for.
All I find is Kai, bruised and honest, looking at me like I'm something precious.
“I'm scared,” I admit.
“I know.”
“I don't want to get hurt again.”
“I know that too.”
He doesn't promise he won't hurt me. Doesn't make declarations he can't keep. He just sits there, letting me see him, giving me space to feel whatever I'm feeling.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us. His hand is cupping my face, gentle despite the raw knuckles, and I'm leaning into him, careful of his injuries, and his forehead presses against mine.
“We can go slow,” he murmurs. “As slow as you need.”
“I don't know what I need.”
“That's okay.” His breath is warm against my lips. “We'll figure it out together.”
He doesn't kiss me. Doesn't push for more. Just holds me close enough to feel his heartbeat, close enough to smell ginger and lemon in our mingled breath. My skin feels tender and tight, but I don't move away.
When he finally pulls back, exhaustion is winning over him.
“You need sleep,” I say.
“I should go.”
“You can barely walk.” I stand before I can second-guess myself. “Stay. Take the couch.”
“Emma, I don't want to impose—“
“You're not imposing.” I pull the spare blanket from the closet. “Doctor's orders.”
He huffs a laugh. “Love this bossy Emma.”
“I patched you up. Can’t have my hard work going to waste.”
I hand him the blanket and pillow. He takes them with a look that makes my chest ache. Like he's not used to being taken care of. Like this small kindness is more than he expected.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Get some sleep.” I head toward my bedroom, then pause. “Kai?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm glad you came here.”
His smile is slow and tired. “So am I.”
I close the door and lean against it. Through the thin wall, I hear him settling onto the couch.
He's here. In my apartment. Sleeping on my couch.
I should stay in my room. I should let him rest.
Instead, I grab an oversized t-shirt from my dresser, fill a glass of water, pad back out.
“Here,” I whisper, setting the water on the coffee table. “And this. It's clean. Might be small, but it's better than sleeping in blood.”
He takes the shirt, fingers brushing mine. I watch him shrug off the ruined button-down, pull my shirt over his head. It stretches across his shoulders, rides up at his waist. Something about seeing him in my clothes makes my stomach flip.
I pull the blanket up over his chest before I can stop myself. His eyes are already half-closed.
“Goodnight, Kai.”
“Goodnight, Em.”
I flee to my bedroom and close the door.
What am I doing? He's dangerous. He showed up covered in blood after beating information out of criminals. There are walls he hasn't let me past. He lives in a world I don't understand.
I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.
He's also patient. Honest when it matters. He looks at me like I'm worth something.
He didn't kiss me. He could have. I would have let him. Instead, he held me and said we'd figure it out together.
The pros and cons chase each other in circles until they blur together.
The last thing I remember before sleep takes me is the sound of his breathing through the thin wall, steady and close.