"Yeah, I remember. I don't have 'fucking Stockholm syndrome.'" I shove the plate at his chest until he's forced to either take it or let it fall. He takes it. "I also remember you beat Stephen into pumpkin pulp when he cornered me. I remember you gave me your room because you thought I'd feel safer there. I remember you brought me to Jamie so I'd have a mask like the rest of you, even if you're being a passive-aggressive dick about it."
"None of that was because I care?—"
"I do," I grit out, even if it fucking kills me to admit it. "People are allowed to care about you, Rex. Even when you don't want them to."
His jaw clenches. "I don't need?—"
"Everyone needssomething." I take a breath, force myself to soften my voice just slightly. "Even you."
For a second, just one fragile second, something cracks in his expression, but he immediately locks it down behind that impenetrable wall he's built around himself and replaces it with seething rage and a curled lip.
"Eat your fucking dinner," I say quietly. "Please."
He stares at me until I think he's going to tell me to go fuck myself or shove the chopsticks up my ass orsomething. But all he does is step back into Rafael's room and shut the door in my face.
But he has the plate.
I return to the living room where Phoenix and Rafael are pretending they weren't listening to every word of that exchange.
"He took the food?" Phoenix asks hopefully.
"Yeah." I sink back onto my floor pillow between them, suddenly exhausted. "Why does it make him so angry? That someone would give a shit if he eats or sleeps or takes care of himself?" I mutter, dragging a hand through my white hair.
Phoenix and Rafael exchange one of those looks that tells me they know exactly why but aren't sure how to explain it.
"Because," Phoenix says finally, voice gentle, "Rex has spent so long believing he's a monster that anyone treating him like he's human confuses the hell out of him."
Yeah.
That sounds about right.
CHAPTER 2
PHOENIX
"Ilook fuckingridiculous."
Rafael snorts from the driver's seat. "You do bear an unfortunate fucking resemblance to every guy who's ever told me all about his groundbreaking craft beer app at a party."
I catch my reflection in the passenger mirror and groan.
The manbun was Bells's idea, and that's the worst part. Or maybe it's the thick-rimmed plastic glasses I'm not convinced are for men at all, or the oversized hand-knit cardigan she thrifted.
I'm barely recognizable as Phoenix the drummer.
I look like Phoenix the sad poet.
Rafael, meanwhile, has gone full preppy nightmare. Khakis. A goddamn polo shirt. Loafers with no socks. His shaggy hair is slicked back, and he's wearing a terrible watch.
We both glance at the back seat where Bells is fully in male disguise. She's staring out the window, chewing the inside of her cheek.
She hasn't worn the binder around the penthouse since the hotel. Just baggy clothes and oversized hoodies, since the cat's out of the bag with me and Raf.
It's been... nice, actually. Watching her move around without that constant tension in her shoulders, without the edge of discomfort she tries to hide when the binder's been on too long.
But today she needed the full armor.
"You're sure Jamie won't recognize you two?" Bells asks, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.