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But his fingers close over mine, strong and warm, and he nods at the broken sharpener still in my other hand. “That thing. The pencil sharpener. It broke last month. I kept it. You’d think I’m a hoarder. Perhaps my time on the fucking streets saw to that, and maybe I am a little. But that’s not really true. It’s pretty much empty in here, isn’t it?”
I nod. Spartan is the word that leaps to mind. Sparse. Military, almost.
“I kept the sharpener thinking I could fix it. I keep the things I believe I can fix.”
I blink. Open my mouth to ask why he’s telling me this little story that has nothing to do with my question. Anger simmers in my stomach. Is he dismissing my fears? Is he ignoring me?
His eyes hold mine when I look up, dark like the night. Intense. Willing me to understand.
Shane doesn’t talk much. He also doesn’t say things without a reason. And he doesn’t ignore me, or my fears.
“You are,” I search for the words but settle on one he used before about himself, “damaged. Broken. But you believe you can fix yourself.” My eyes sting, but it’s a good feeling. “So you decided to keep yourself, like you kept that sharpener. Keep alive.”
An emotion flickers across his face—surprise? Gladness? Relief?
No, something more. Something bigger, deeper that makes my heart pound.
“I hope I’m right,” he says quietly, looking away. “That I can do this.”
“You can.” I let the sharpener roll back on the covers and put my hand on his face so that he has to turn back toward me. “You will. And I’m right here to help you.”
***
“I should get ready for work,” he says when I intercept him at the door of the small bathroom. When I woke up five minutes ago, he wasn’t in bed with me, his side cold. His drawing pad and pencils are strewn on the sofa, though.
I wonder how long he sat there, putting his nightmares on paper until I realized he was gone. If he had another nightmare, and I didn’t notice.
I wrap my arms around him, and he makes a startled sound but hugs me back. He’s only dressed in his low-slung pants, and I press my mouth to the warm skin of his shoulder before I pull back again.
The early morning light silvers his lashes and the lines of his face, the strong bones of his jaw and cheekbones, his long collarbone. Picks out the hollows on his muscled chest, shadows mingling with the dark ink spread there.
Makes his eyes darker.
“I liked spending the night with you,” I whisper, and he makes another sound, this time a ghost of a laugh, because it tugs his lips into a smile.
“What the fuck ever,” he says, but his voice is soft, as if he’s wondering whether I’m telling the truth. “Nightmares, triggers…”
“And blowjobs and kissing…” I wink at him, pleased to see his smile widen.
“I really should get ready,” he says, but makes no move to step around me. I brush his long hair off his shoulders, tug lightly on the dreamcatcher earring.
Testing.
“You said you trust me.” I trail my hands down his defined pecs, press lightly. “You need anchors for those moments when you can’t tell the present from the past. Anchors that don’t make you bleed.”
He goes still, the muscles under my palms turning to stone. His eyes go flat. “That’s the only thing that works. Do you think I haven’t tried everything I could think of?”
Oh crap. “I know. I’m only—”
This time he does sidestep me and marches into the bathroom. I spin around and a
m treated to the sight of his beautiful broad back and shiny long hair.
I draw a deep breath. “I think I can help you, if you’ll tell me more. I know it’s hard, talking about this, thinking about it. But it could really make a difference.”
His shoulders tense up more. He braces one hand on the sink, curls the other into a fist and bows forward, and for a moment I think maybe I’ve gone too far because he lifts his fist as if he’s about to punch a hole through the mirror.
“What makes you an expert?” he asks instead, his voice gravelly as if he’s been chain-smoking. “In what can bring me back from the past?”
