Page 89 of Hush, Little Baby

I answer quietly. “Yes?”

“You have six messages from Giuseppe,” Constantine states. I pull the phone away from my ear and check. Yep, six messages.

“How the fuck did you know that, stalker?”

I can practically hear his eye-roll through the speaker. “Because Giuseppe called me to bitch about it.”

“Goddammit,” I swear, stroking Charlie’s back when he flinches from my tone. “Well, what the fuck did he want?”

“He needed to verify details for your trip,” Constantine says.

My brows cinch together. “Trip? What trip?”

“Fucking—” Constantine takes a deep breath through his nose. “You are scheduled to meet a new distributor in Tijuana tomorrow night.”

I glance down. Charlie’s nearly limp in my lap, eyes closed, mouth in a soft line.

“Would you hate me if I told you to go in my place?”

“Yes,” he answers bluntly. “But I’ll handle it. I expect a thank-you gift upon my return.”

I grin. “Anything, brother. Now, be safe and don’t start any wars with the cartel, yeah?”

“Hése mas.” Fuck off.

He ends the call.

Charlie’s lashes flutter. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, baby. Just work stuff. Constantine’s got it covered.”

Charlie blinks up at me, head on my chest. “How long have you known Constantine? You seem closer to him than anyone else you work with.”

I try to keep my answer casual, though I’m aware of the way Charlie’s head rises and falls with my breath. “He was my TA in undergrad, actually. I was nineteen and full of shit, and he was… not much older, but already smarter than anyone else in the room. He was always correcting the professor behind his back. I figured he was an asshole.” I brush the hair back from Charlie’s forehead. “But then he caught me trying to cheat my way through the final project, and instead of ratting me out, he made me redo it. Sat with me for four hours while I worked. I don’t think anyone had ever done that for me before.”

Charlie’s lips tip up in a faint smile. “He’s kind.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” The memory makes me smile. “He’d rather die than be caught doing something nice. But he is. If I ever drop dead, he’ll probably be the only person in the will who won’t sell my organs.”

Charlie laughs, and it’s a real one—brief, high, startled out of him. It vibrates through my chest, and for a second, I remember exactly why I have always needed to be the one to fix things. Not just for myself. I crave the relief that comes from seeing someone truly smile.

He twists a little, repositioning so he’s half on top of me, legs folded to the side.

I let myself relax for the first time all day. The storm outside has gone from background noise to a deep, inescapable presence. Rain batters the windows, the dark sky shrouding the city.

He tucks his face closer, nuzzling at the collar of my shirt. The gesture is so childlike it cracks something in me. When I run my fingers down his spine, he shivers—not from cold, but from the relief of being allowed this moment. His breathing slows into a kind of trance, the sadness of before dissolving molecule by molecule.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” I ask softly, because the question means more than the words.

He shakes his head and mutters, “No. Want to stay here.”

I don’t press him. It’s not reluctance I hear, but a different request—stay with me, just as we are, for as long as we can. I stroke his back until my hand is as gentle and unthinking as the fall of rain. He settles, boneless, a small sigh escaping him on every exhale.

The moment feels infinite. But at some point, his hand finds my wrist, and he tugs me down until our faces are level. We both blink in the dim light, and for a second I see myself mirrored in the watery depths of his eyes—tired, hungry, desperate to be good at this.

I’m shocked as Charlie kisses me first—soft, slow, hardly even a kiss at first. Just a brush of mouths, a flutter. Like he’s testing the boundary between wanting and being allowed. It’s not the way I’m used to kissing—no hunger, no opening for teeth. He’s trembling, so faintly it would be invisible if he weren’t pressed so close. I hold his jaw in my hand and tilt his face up, and he lets me, always lets me, eyes closed, and lashes clumped together from some earlier wetness.

He tastes like salt. I taste the fear, and the hope that’s always been its shadow. I try to take both in, swallow them gently, and replace them with something better.