And even though there was so much going on, it felt…lifeless.
I messaged Peter once I was far enough away and told him not to look for me, that I was fine and just needed space and time to piece myself back together and prepare for another day.
I know I should go home.
That I should face my fears and tackle them head-on.
My mind travels the right roads at the right time to get me there, but my heart…
My heart takes me to Connor.
Outside his bedroom window, mud seeps between my toes, and the frigid air creates goosebumps along my skin. I raise my fist and tap, tap, tap on the glass.
A moment later, a light turns on. And then nothing. I tap again, my heart racing. The blind lifts and Connor appears, his eyes squinting. It’s clear he’d been asleep, or close to it. Hair a mess, he’s shirtless, the obvious beginnings of bruises mar parts of his torso, and I look down, shame filling every part of me. I bite down on my lip as he slides the window up. “Jesus Christ, Ava. What the hell are you doing?”
His warm palms meet my soaking wet elbows, and then his entire body is cocooning mine, lifting me off my feet and into his bedroom. My feet land on his soft carpet, and I look down at the mess I’ve made. “I’m dirty,” I tell him.
Inside and out.
Dirty, dazed and damaged.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “Just wait, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
I stand in the middle of his room surrounded by blue walls and basketballs, raindrops dripping from my hair, my fingers. He returns with a towel and a first-aid box, his movements swift. His towel-covered hands start at my hair, and then down my arms. He squats when he gets to my legs, does each one in turn, and then he stands up again, his touch gentle as he leads me to his desk chair, encourages me to sit. “Your dressing’s ruined,” he informs. He sits on the edge of his bed and reaches across, rolling me toward him. “I have to change them, or you won’t heal properly.” Concerned eyes look up at mine, keep them there. His chest rises with his long inhale as if it’s the first breath he’s taken since he’s seen me. He asks, “Can I do that for you, Ava?”
Slowly, I nod, my gaze moving from his eyes to the bruise beneath it, the cut on his nose and the corner of his lips, then down to his collarbone, another bruise, two more on his torso, and I fucking hate myself.
He starts at my neck, slowly peeling off the gauze, his eyes focused, hands steady. “Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet.
I shake my head.
Breaths staggered, his gaze flicks to mine, then back down again. He moves forward, just an inch, his heated breath hitting my jaw. I hear the moment his lips part, and my eyes drift shut when his mouth finds the burn. A moan escapes from deep in my throat.
He repeats the process again and again, each kiss lighting a spark inside me, warming me from the inside out. He pulls back, his eyelids heavy, then he blinks. Once, twice. And his bright blue eyes are focused again. He grabs a tube of cream and starts applying it to the burns, gently, then replaces each of the gauzes he’d removed. When he’s done, he exhales loudly, his fingers reaching up to move the hair away from my eyes. He stares at me, eyes flicking between each of mine. “What were you thinking being out in the cold like that?” His fingers trace my arms, up and down, up and down.
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “But I needed to see you.”
His forehead rests against mine when he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I rear back, run my thumb below his eye. “Does this hurt?” I ask.
He nods, his hand circling my wrist and pulling my hand down so he can link our fingers together. “A little.”
I lick my lips, kiss away his pain the way he did mine. His palm cups my jaw, his fingertips laced through my hair while his lips find mine, skimming, but not kissing. We exhale at the same time, our breaths merging. I run my hands along his arms, feeling his muscles tense beneath the contact. Then over his bare shoulders, down his chest. I pause just over his heart, wait until I feel his life beating beneath my touch. “Magic,”