What do we fucking do?
I don't have answers. All I have is proximity and stubbornness and a growing certainty that leaving Rex alone right now would be catastrophically bad.
"So Raf," I say, forcing my voice to stay casual so we're not just sitting here in complete dead silence, "you never answered. The fuzzy handcuffs. The vampire romance novels. What other secrets is that nightstand hiding?"
Rafael chokes on his coffee. "There's nothing?—"
"Probably research for his aesthetic," Phoenix says, grinning for the first time this morning.
Raf growls. "Fuck off, both of you."
"The growling, too," Phoenix adds. "Didn't you have composite fangs at one point?"
"Idid," Raf grits out. "Because I broke a tooth in a fist fight. If they were going to fix it anyway, might as well do something cool."
Phoenix reaches over and pushes up Raf's lip with the tip of his finger. Raf snaps at the air like he's going to bite Phoenix's hand off and Phoenix yanks it back just in time with a low cackle. "They don't look as fang-y now."
"Because they wore down, dude."
I manage a laugh. I'm so drained, nothing is truly funny right now, but the light, stupid banter feels better than?—
Rex's hand moves.
It's the first voluntary movement he's made since we sat down. His fingers shift against my thigh like he's not even aware he's doing it.
My heart stutters.
I don't stop talking. Don't even pause. Just keep giving Raf shit about being a vampire while my free hand drifts down to meet Rex's halfway.
Our fingers brush.
Rex goes still. His eye, which has been unfocused and distant, suddenly sharpens. Drops to where our hands are touching.
He stares.
Just... stares at my fingers resting against his knuckles. Like he's never seen a hand before. Like he's trying to understand whatit means that I'm touching him voluntarily, without flinching, without pulling away.
I trace my fingers across Rex's knuckles. Light, barely there, the kind of touch you could pretend didn't happen if you needed to.
Rex doesn't pretend.
Slowly—so fucking slowly I almost miss it—his hand turns over against mine. Palm up, fingers uncurling like a flower opening to sunlight.
An invitation.
I accept it without hesitation, lacing my fingers through his. His hand is so much larger than mine, rougher, calloused from years of guitar. It swallows my fingers whole.
And then he leans slightly in my direction, like gravity has decided to pull him toward me instead of the floor. His shoulder brushes mine. Then presses against it. The handcuff chain goes slack as the distance between us shrinks to nothing.
I don't acknowledge it. Don't look at him, don't comment, don't do anything that might spook him into retreating. Just keep joking with Raf and Phoenix about how Raf would look hot with fangs, actually, and he should have them sharpened again.
Then—impossibly—Rex's rigidity melts away. He relaxes against me, his weight settling into my side like he's finally stopped fighting gravity.
His head tips toward my shoulder.
I hold my breath.
It happens in slow motion. Rex's head dropping, his forehead finding the curve where my shoulder meets my neck, his choppyblack hair falling forward to obscure his face completely. His breath ghosts across my skin in a shaky, exhausted exhale.