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Maxwell twisted into a cross-legged seat on the bed so he could keep facing Garrett. “You’re a protective person. And you’ve been particularly protective toward me ever since Kurt showed up.”
Garrett wrinkled his nose. “Is that a problem?” He hoped not. He didn’t think he could turn it off.
“No.” Maxwell shook his head, and Garrett nodded and sat on the bed with his back to the headboard. Maxwell’s lips twisted into a grimace again, and he tangled his fingers together in his lap. “But I’m used to protectiveness going hand in hand with paternalism.”
Garrett shook his head sharply. “That’s possessiveness.”
Maxwell gave him a sweet smile. “You would know the difference, wouldn’t you?” Then he shrugged. “The point is, searching the upper floors was dangerous, so I had expected you to tell me not to come.”
Garrett snorted. “We were in the Resistance together. I saw you at Kaston. You’ve done a lot more dangerous things than search an old apartment block for some civilians.”
Maxwell chuckled with him and then shifted to sit beside him with his back to the headboard. “I know that. And you know that. And”—he sighed, and his hand twitched toward Garrett’s, so Garrett took it and tangled their fingers together—“and I appreciate that you didn’t forget it.”
Garrett lifted Maxwell’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Never.”
Maxwell rolled his eyes with that indulgent smile and tugged his hand back. “Alright, we need to go to sleep.”
“We do.” Garrett flipped off the lantern set on the chest of drawers beside him and plunged them into as much darkness as could be managed in a shack with holes in the roof. He shimmied under the covers, and once he’d felt Maxwell do the same, he turned to face him. “Can I hold you?”
“Yes.” Maxwell turned without hesitation, and Garrett wound his arm around the man’s waist and pulled his back against Garrett’s chest. He curled his body around him and sighed into his hair.
“Goodnight, Maxwell.”
And much as Garrett chastised himself for wishful thinking, he couldn’t deny the bone-deep contentment in Maxwell’s voice when he replied, “Goodnight, Garrett.”
Chapter Eight
Maxwell saw the landmark spire of the Thule mines peak above the horizon a few minutes after Garrett said he had. And maybe Garrett really had seen it first—his eyesight was certainly better than Maxwell’s—but Maxwell couldn’t help but think that Garrett had been seeing the metal bars and supports of that spire dancing before his eyes from the moment they’d taken off. He’d watched Garrett’s posture grow steadily stiffer and tenser until his neck muscles stood perpetually in sharp relief.
When Joan’s voice came through the radio, they both jumped. “You’ve got two hours until a storm hits.”
Maxwell raised his eyebrows and exchanged glances with Garrett. That was a lot more warning than they’d gotten the last time.
Garrett hit the reply. “Since when can we predict storms hours out?”
“Since this morning,” Joan replied. “Sazahk finally thinks his simulation is accurate.”
“Do we think it’s accurate?” Garrett’s nose scrunched briefly, but his eyes stayed locked on the Thule mine’s steadily growing skyline.
“I don’t see why not.”
Maxwell didn’t either. Sazahk was as brilliant as anyone Maxwell had ever met, and any sort of warning was better than none at all.
“Alright.” Garrett nodded without looking any more confident. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Good luck.” Joan disconnected.
Maxwell ran his eyes over the tense lines of Garrett’s body and didn’t offer his own thoughts.
He wished they didn’t have to do this right after last night. He’d lain awake for hours, turning the evening over in his mind and analyzing it and fighting with himself. The way Garrett had looked at him… Maxwell couldn’t shake the feeling that Sebastian was right, that Garrett had feelings for him, and that Maxwell was breaking his heart.
And Maxwell didn’t want to break his heart. He wanted to cherish it, and have it, and live in the stupid fantasy of them together.
And so then, he hadn’t been able to shake the persistent desire to tell Garrett the truth. It clogged up his throat, begging to be let out. Every time he pictured Garrett’s face in that alleyway asking him for the truth, he wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs.
He was a torvar.
He was a torvar, and it was all a lie except for the bit about how much Maxwell cared for him and could Garrett maybe—just maybe—love him anyway?
