Page 92 of Twisted Needs

I think he’s fucking camping out downstairs. Each time I come down to grab something or run my laundry, he’s sitting on the couch with his laptop in his lap or pacing around the downstairs talking to one of his teammates about stupid fucking hockey shit.

This time, he actually has the audacity to try speaking to me again. “Hey,” he starts, careful like he’s approaching a wild animal.

Looking at him hurts too much, so I avoid making eye contact as hard as possible. But then he makes that impossible. He walks up to me and tilts my chin up, squeezing my jaw a little. Almost like he’s trying to force words out of me.

I turn my head away, but his hand stays there. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to look at him, but then his thumb brushes over my bottom lip and something inside me finally cracks.

“Stop it, Parker,” I snap, shoving him away. “That won’t work.”

“Will you talk to me?”

I look him up and down with a disdainful look. “No.”

“Are you serious about moving out?”

I turn away and don’t answer him because I’m not entirely sure. Luca would pay for an apartment the moment I asked, but I don’t want his money and I don’t particularly care for the drama it would cause.

Parker is the bane of my existence and I’m still trying to protect him. Fuck.

“Anders.” He comes up from behind and holds onto my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut again and shake my head.

Something suffocating crawls up my throat, reminding me of what Parker told me last night over the phone.

He told me I was his air.

I don’t fucking care. I shouldn’t.

And yet…my bottom lip quivers when his arm wraps around my chest. My body settles against his, craving the contact. I even hold onto his arm and pull him closer against my better judgement.

Parker lets out a deep exhale, almost like he’s relieved I’m not pushing him away. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Ten seconds. I’ll let him hold me for ten seconds until I feel better, and then I’ll push him away.

“This is all I’ve wanted,” he whispers again. “To hold you. To feel you. To smell you⁠—”

I feel him tugging. Slowly reeling me in. “Stop,” I blurt. “Just stop.”

“Baby—”

I choke. “Stop. Stop. You can’t call me that.”

“It kills me to feel you pull away from me,” he murmurs.

I huff through my nose, turning around to give him a hardened look. “Hurts, doesn’t it? The push and the pull? Makes you feel like shit.”

He nods, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. It does.”

“Do you feel it too?” I ask, furrowing my brows. “That sick feeling in your stomach? The ache in the back of your throat?”

“I’m sorry⁠—”

“Do you realize how long I’ve been feeling exactly like this?” I ask, clenching my jaw. “Too long, Pet’ka. I’ve been feeling it for years. You do this to me. You hurt me.”

“What do you want me to say?” He lets out a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Anders. You’re so precious to me a⁠—”

“Precious,” I echo thinly. My mouth curls into a cold smile. “Three months ago you dropped to your knees and sucked me off three feet from where we're standing.” I laugh once. “I think I'd rather you call me a dirty boy again. I’m not fucking precious.”

Age only seems to be a problem when he needs that barrier. Otherwise, I don’t think he could give two shits about it.