“No one can fix you, mate,” Marc said. “It doesn’t work like that, and there’s some folk who wouldn’t consider you broken. Do you think I am?”
“What? Broken?” Marc shrugged, and Jamie shook his head so hard his brain spun. “No, of course not.”
“So why would you see yourself that way? You’ve been hurt too, Jamie. Just a different gun.”
Damn it.What was it about this man that brought Jamie to tears when he hadn’t cried since he was twelve? And what the fuck was he even crying about now? That Marc could see what a mess he was in and still held him tight against his chest like he was his most precious thing? That for the second night in a row he couldn’t resist the call of Marc’s lips?Fuck.Coherent thought abandoned Jamie as Marc smothered him in a sweetly crushing embrace and drove his tongue into Jamie’s mouth, kissing him harder than he ever had before. Instantly lost, Jamie gasped and pressed himself against Marc, moulding himself to every hard ridge of Marc’s body, his shin scraping Marc’s prosthesis.
The pain sent a soft shockwave through him, driving him impossibly closer to Marc. He battled for dominance, his cock strained in his skinny jeans, and only the wailing arrival of Marc’s damn-fucking cat brought him to his senses a stuttered heartbeat before he unbuttoned Marc’s shorts.
They broke apart. Jamie’s eyes widened as he realised he’d somehow pushed Marc out of the kitchen and into the wall in the hallway. He pressed his forehead to Marc’s, breathing heavily. “I’d better go.”
Marc brought his hands to his lips, touching them lightly, like he was checking they were still there. “You’re not staying for dinner?”
Reluctantly, Jamie shook his head. “Not tonight. For once, I’m actually tired enough to sleep, and I think I should make the most of it.”
What could’ve been disappointment flashed briefly in Marc’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a compassion that melted and infuriated Jamie in equal measure. But he didn’t have it in him to get tricky with Marc tonight. He just wanted one more kiss, a touch—anything—before he went home.
He settled for brushing his lips along Marc’s stubbled jaw, and then he forced himself out of Marc’s arms, knowing that Marc would let him go. “Dinner’s in the pan. What you don’t eat, take it to work and have it for lunch.”
“I’m switching to nights tomorrow.”
“Supper, then. What are you doing during the day? Resting?”
“I can help you upstairs if you like?” Marc said.
“Nice try. What are you paying me for if you stick your nose in?” Jamie allowed himself one last trail of his fingers down Marc’s arm. “Don’t answer that. Just rest, okay? I won’t disturb you. Good night, Marc.”
“Night. And Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“I care about you because you let me.”
Nine
Marc had never understood how time could pass so slowly that he wanted to scream, or jump forward so fast that weeks went by in the blink of an eye. It was somehow the end of January when he realised that Jamie had been working in his house for two solid weeks, and they’d fallen into a wonderful haze of domestication. Jamie came to the house every day or night that Marc worked, and toiled away in the library, greeting Marc at the end of each shift with a different spicy noodle dish and a smile that made Marc fall a tiny bit more in love with him.
Not that he admitted it to himself often. Instead, he contented himself with inhaling Jamie’s chilli-hot dinners and taking whatever affection Jamie gave him.
And that varied from day to day. Sometimes Jamie clung to him, burying his face in Marc’s chest, or in the crook of Marc’s neck, like breathing Marc in grounded him. Then he’d look up and smile, and kiss Marc, sweetly at first, but then harder as Marc responded. Dinner—or breakfast if Marc worked nights—was late on those days, and Marc held Jamie as tight as he dared until one of them gave in to a different hunger and deemed it time to eat.
But then there were the other days—the ones where Jamie was wound so tight he barely spoke, sticking around after Marc got home only long enough to tell him what he’d left in his magic frying pan. When that happened, Marc’s gut told him that Jamie had spent too much time alone—that he needed company and conversation. Comfort. Friendship. But Jamie wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t, perhaps. And was often out the door before Marc could think of the words to stop him.
On the first weekend in February, Marc pulled a double shift. Staff sickness left him no option but to grab what sleep he could and keep on working until cover arrived, and it was the early hours of Sunday morning before he called a cab home, too knackered to risk driving.
After being gone so long, he expected to come home to an empty house, and that was depressing. Jamie’s moods were erratic, but his presence in Marc’s day-to-day life had become consistent enough for him to get used to it, and his heart skipped a beat when he dumped his coat and shoes in the hall and found Jamie in the kitchen. Breakfast and a dose of Jamie’s acerbic company was just what he needed before he passed out for the rest of the day.
But for once Jamie wasn’t cooking, and he shrank away when Marc approached him, his face contorted in pain. Marc dropped his bag, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” Marc caught Jamie’s arm and forced him to look at Marc. “Why are you holding your shoulder like that? Have you hurt yourself?”
“No.”
“Liar,” Marc said again, but gentler this time, as it was clear by Jamie’s hunched stance that he was in some serious discomfort. “What happened?”
Jamie scowled, though it wasn’t as fierce as usual. “I fell off the ladder.”