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“Feels like it, too,” he rumbles.
“Why?”
He hesitates, his hand drawing circles on my back. His thick lashes lower. “I can’t manage stress. It fucks me up. Here.” He lifts a hand to tap the side of his head, then lowers it to his chest, his fingers tangling with mine. “And here.”
“Why? I mean…” Damn, I love how he’s holding my hand pressed to his chest, over his heart. “Were you always this way? Must be hard.”
He’s gazing down at our tangled fingers. His heartbeat has started to slow down. His breathing has eased out. “Not always. Just the last few years.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if something happened to cause this. Joel’s words echo in my mind—about Jethro having gone through a lot and deserving a happy life.
“I fucking love how you feel in my arms,” he whispers, and I hum in agreement. He feels amazing, too—his chest padded, his arms so strong around me, his scent making my mouth water.
“You like me?” I smile up at him.
One side of his mouth quirks. “Like? That word doesn’t come anywhere near how much I fucking want you.” And before I have a chance to digest this much, he goes on, “I know. You want Joel. Forget I said that. Fuck.”
“Can’t I like both of you?”
He grunts, closes his eyes, his lashes dark crescents on his cheekbones. “You’ll be the death of me, Sugar Pop.”
“Nobody’s dying,” I say, but he wraps his arm more tightly around me, burying his face in my hair, producing a muffled sound. “Everything’s okay, Jet.”
“Fuck.” He clutches me to him as if afraid I’ll vanish into smoke.
“Everything’s fine.” I just hold on, feeling another shiver go through him. I wonder if I said something to set it off again.
He pulls me slowly sideways, and we lie down on the sofa, curled around each other.
“Everyone dies,” he informs me, his voice faint.
“Eventually.”
“Sometimes sooner than later.”
I pull back to look up into his face. “Are you hiding some deadly sickness from me and not telling me?”
He lets out a breath. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Good. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
His mouth finds my hair and his next breath ruffles it. “That’s what Joel always says, but life is a bitch.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Will you tell me what happened with Joel?” I ask against his cotton-clad chest. “How did you hit your head, and why he doesn’t know you’re not feeling well? Did you two have an argument?”
“Something like that. I… pushed. I never know when to stop.” He huffs, obviously thinking his cryptic comment is enough explanation.
“And you hit your head.”
“I slipped and fell. Hitting my head was an accident. It’s not his fault.”
“Never said it was.”
I lift my hands to his crazy hair and slip my fingers through it, massaging his head. He groans, throws a leg over mine and squashes me to his chest.
“You feel so damn good,” he rasps. “Stay tonight.”
“Jet…”
