I cross the room. I walk into his arms and press my face against his chest and his hands come up around me — careful, gentle, one palm flat between my shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of my head — and I hold on.
I hold on like I should have held on the first night. Like I should have held on every night. Like I should have held on in the ER.
"I'm sorry," I say into his chest. "I'm sorry I didn't call you. I'm sorry I turned off my phone. I'm sorry I said I didn't need rescuing when the truth is I didn't know how to ask."
His arms tighten around me. His chin rests on the top of my head. He's shaking — barely, just a tremor, the only sign that the last hour hurt him too.
"I know," he says. "I know."
Behind me, the room empties. Quietly, one by one, the way a pride moves when they know two of their own need space. The front door opens and closes. Footsteps on the porch. The sound of Knox's bike starting.
And then it's just us. Me and Vaughn. In Ash's house. Holding on.
Chapter 18
Vaughn
He's in my arms and he's shaking and he smells like hospital soap and he's letting me hold him.
That's the thing that breaks me — not the blood-stiff jacket, not the bandaged hand, not the wordfired.It's that Robin Martinez, who couldn't curl against me the first night, who lay rigid in bed with an inch of space between us, who has spent his entire adult life performing closeness while keeping himself at arm's length — is gripping the back of my shirt with his good hand and pressing his face into my chest and holding on like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
The pride cleared out — Knox and Toby first, then Jason with Ash, then Silas and Ezra, so quiet I barely registered them leaving. They know. This is ours.
"Couch," I say, because he's swaying on his feet and his skin is cold under his t-shirt.
I guide him there. Settle him against the cushions. Ash left a lineup on the coffee table — water, painkillers, theantibiotic bottle already opened, the cloud blanket folded neat. I shake out the blanket, wrap it around Robin's shoulders, put the painkillers in his good hand.
"Take these."
He takes them. Drinks half the water. I tuck the blanket tighter around him and he makes a sound — small, involuntary — and burrows into it.
"Antibiotic," I say, shaking one into his palm.
He takes it. Drinks more water.
"When did you last eat?"
"Three thirty this morning."
I get up. He makes another sound — the sound of a person who's been left too many times and can't help reacting when someone moves away — and I stop.
"I'm getting you food. I'll be ten feet away. I'm not leaving."
He nods. Small. Ashamed of the sound he made.
I find bread, cheese, butter. I make him a grilled cheese because it's what I know how to make — I'm not Jason, I'm not Robin, my cooking vocabulary is limited to things that involve a pan and heat and not much else. I bring it to him on a plate and he looks at it and his eyes fill.
"You made me a grilled cheese."
"It's not gourmet."
"It's perfect." His voice cracks.
That hits harder than anything. This man — this extraordinary man who feeds everyone, who bakes love intocookies and cakes and cupcakes, who fills every kitchen he touches with warmth — is excited over a basic sandwich.
He eats the grilled cheese. I make another. He eats that too.
Then he puts the plate down and pulls the blanket around himself and starts talking.