Fall

by Callihan, Kristen

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “You were worse. Then again, you were actually sick. I’m not. So, if you just stopped by to check on me, you can go.”

  The finality in his tone brooks no argument. But he holds my gaze all but daring me to not to go. And I realize that, despite his irritation, despite the fact that he’s clearly baiting me, he doesn’t want to be alone.

  “If you won’t get up, then shove over.”

  John’s brows lift. “What?”

  “You heard me. All this worrying that you hurt yourself while playing guitar naked has made me tired. I need a nap too. Move.”

  His smile is small and wry, but he does as asked, making room for me and resting his head in his hand as he watches me climb onto the bed. It’s a struggle to get up.

  “Jesus. Did you inherit this bed from royalty or something? Maybe the princess who slept on a pea?” His bed is a cloud of perfection, utterly luxurious with the butter-soft covers. I really do have the urge to burrow down and nap the day away.

  John chuckles. “Sorry to crush the fantasy but it’s new.”

  With a sigh, I rest my head on a pillow and face him. Though we’re not touching, we’re close enough that I feel the heat of his body. “I thought Killian’s bed was nice, but this is a whole other level of cushy.”

  John’s brows snap together. “Can you not refer to the place you currently sleep as Killian’s bed?”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, Killian and Liberty’s guest bed. Is that better?”

  “Yes.”

  My lips pull on a smile. “You sounded a little jealous there, you know.”

  Lying this close to him when I’m not sick is a strange sensation. I’m aware of his size, so much bigger than mine. I’m aware of the cadence of his breath, and that he smells a bit like Earl Grey and lemons. And I am aware of the way his green eyes look at me as though I’m all he sees.

  “You’re right,” he says lightly. “I thought that was fairly obvious, Stella Button.”

  We’ve edged closer to each other. Our forearms touch. His skin is warm, the soft friction of it against mine making the little hairs along my arm lift.

  “That I’m always right?” I retort, teasing him because I’m afraid what I’ll expose of myself. “I’m glad you’re finally admitting it.”

  “You have a gift for deliberately misunderstanding me.” His expression is fond and a bit tender as he reaches out and touches the tip of my nose. “I won’t try again,” he whispers roughly. “Ever.”

  A lump gathers in my throat. “I ask if you’re okay because I care. But you don’t have to reassure me. Or please anyone. You did nothing wrong, John.”

  He lets out a hard breath, and my fingers find his. Without hesitation, he turns his hand palm up and threads his fingers with mine. His thumb strokes a slow circle over the backs of our knuckles.

  My voice is a ghost between us. “You want to know why I came looking for you?”

  His focus intensifies. “Tell me.”

  He’s still gently exploring my hand, the smooth skin along the back of it, the sensitive edges of my wrist, and between my knuckles. I feel fragile just then, like he might break me with one harsh touch or if he lets go.

  I don’t look away. “I missed you.”

  His fingers convulse on a squeeze. “I missed you too, Button. I just …” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why I didn’t respond, honestly.”

  But I think I do. Because when I’m low, I don’t want to be the one seeking out company. I want someone to find me, to tell me I’m wanted, needed. And when I don’t get that, I sink lower. Maybe John is different in that regard, but somehow, I doubt it.

  I swallow hard. “I thought … I had this feeling that the world might be getting a little too dark, too heavy for you right now. That you might have needed a hug.”

  My confession seems to wash over him, and he flinches, closing his eyes like he’s considering turning away. I want so badly to clasp his hand hard and hold on tight. But I don’t. It isn’t my decision to make.

  His eyes are over-bright when he opens them and looks at me. The pain in them takes my breath.

  “I do,” he rasps. “I need …”

  I open my arms to him. Shaking, he leans into me, his head resting on the slope of my breast, his arm wrapping low around my waist and tugging me against him. Our legs tangle as we move to get closer. John sighs, his body melding into mine. And I run my hands through his hair, making nonsensical noises under my breath.

  “Fuck, Stella … It hurts, and I don’t know how …” His body clenches as if he’s mentally willing himself to keep it together.

  “I know, honey.” I stroke the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Tight muscles feel like steel under the silk of his skin.

  He swallows audibly. “It comes and goes. I’m on top of the world, then suddenly I’m not.” The warmth of his breath gusts over my breasts. “My therapist warned me. She said it’s an endurance race. You endure. You keep moving forward. But some days, Stella … Some days I get so fucking tired.”

  “Then rest,” I whisper. “Rest with me. Let me be where you lay your head for a while.”

  He stills, his cheek pressed against my chest. “I don’t want your pity.”

  No, he wants reassurance. I get that. “You don’t have my pity. It’s what you do for the people you care about.”

  I wish I had better words for him, a better way to comfort, but he is the poet, not me. I can only hold him and hope it helps.

  The stiffness in his body eases but he remains completely still. “You care?”

  “Of course I do.” A blush runs over my cheeks. We’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, talk of feelings is awkward. “I’d like to think we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

  “Friends,” he repeats under his breath. But when I twitch, completely embarrassed by his lack of enthusiasm, he holds me fast. “We’re friends, Stella. We’ve always been, even when you didn’t realize it.”

  There’s no missing the rebuke in his tone; it only makes me smile. “Okay then.”

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  We fall into a tentative silence. I play with his hair, running my fingers through it, and he slowly relaxes against me. The knowledge that I helped him feel even a little better is gratifying. But I can’t stop thinking about the state I found him in. “John?”

  “Hmm?” He’s loose-limbed and warm now.

  I hate that I might ruin that, but I have to ask the question. “It’s Tuesday.” Instantly, he tenses. Guilt pricks at my neck. I keep stroking his hair, fearing he’ll withdraw. “You see Dr. Allen on Tuesdays, don’t you?”

  John tucks his head further into the crook of my shoulder. “I forgot.”

  “John—”

  “I swear I did,” he says, stronger now. His long fingers curl around the curve of my hip and hold tight. “I know it sounds like utter bullshit, but I forget things. Especially when I get low.”

  “I believe you,” I say softly. “But isn’t when you’re feeling low the most important time to remember your appointments?”

  I can’t see his face, but somehow I know he’s scowling. It’s there in the bend of his neck and the clench of his hands.

  “I’m supposed to write lists,” he grumbles against my chest, then laughs shortly and without humor. “Kind of hard to do when I forget to write the bloody lists as well.”

  “True.” I bite back a fond smile. “I could help, you know. Remind you to—”

  “No,” he cuts in, soft but vehement. “I don’t want that from you, Button. I don’t want you to see me that way. As someone who needs minding. Someone to fix.”

  “I do not see you that way,” I retort.

  This time, it’s John who soothes, rubbing slow circles on my hip. “I know, love. But there are some things I need to learn to do on my own. Please.”

  All the fight leaves me. He’s right, and pride is a powerful thing. Sometimes, it’s all you have left. I can only do as he as
ks. “All right. But please promise me that you’ll call Dr. Allen.”

  There’s a small smile in his voice when he answers, “I will.”

  He nudges my hand with the crown of his head. Subtle, he is not. But since I love playing with his silky hair, I happily take up running my fingers through the strands once more.

  When he speaks, his voice is a ghost of sound. “Killian was so pissed at me. When I tried. I mean, I get it—”

  “I’m sorry,” I cut in sharper than I intend, “but Killian can go fuck himself.”

  John’s shoulders jerk. “Jesus, Stells,” he says with a husky laugh, “don’t hold back.”

  “I know he’s your friend. But I’m serious. He can fuck right off with that.”

  I feel him smile against me as his grip tightens. “It scared him, Button. Scared them all. It changed all of us in a way I didn’t think about. We were like spoiled children before that. Then suddenly, life got too real.”

  I can practically feel the weight of that change sitting on John’s shoulders. I press my lips to the top of his head. “When I was five, I ran out into traffic and almost got hit by a car. The second my mom got to me, she slapped me on the butt and screamed at me for being careless. She’d been scared to death and her reaction was to lash out.” My fingers trail through John’s hair. “And I get that’s why your friends acted the way they did. But the initial scare is long over, John, and yet it still bugs you. You’re still trying to protect their feelings.”

  John sighs. “Shit. I know. Can’t seem to help doing that.”

  “Because you’re a fixer.”

  “Hardly.”

  “You are,” I insist softly. “You smooth things over, try to make people feel better. Just because you do it with a load of snark doesn’t make it less true.”

  Affection warms his voice. “Just like you.”

  We are alike in that way. I hadn’t thought it when I first met him, but I see it now. Our approaches are different but the intent is the same.

  My eyes are drifting closed when he speaks again.

  “You smell nice.” John’s observation wakes me up.

  “Okay.”

  “What’s with the tone?” he asks, clearly amused.

  I shrug. “Smelling nice should be a given. Because the opposite would be that I smell bad—”

  “Which would be a problem,” he adds solemnly.

  I nudge his shoulder. “It’s like me saying, hey, John, look at you being all clean.”

  He laughs and he rises. His nose skims my jaw, causing happy shivers to break out over my skin. “Stella Button, you think too much.”

  I can’t help running my hand down his waist. He’s warm and solid. “Better than thinking too little, isn’t it?”

  His answering hum vibrates between us, then he shifts, tucking his cheek into the crook of my neck. “Let me elaborate on my previous statement. You always smell nice. But there’s this scent I can’t place …” He breathes deep, then lets it out slowly, heating my skin. “It’s sweet and clean but soothing and kind of spicy. It’s in your hair and on your skin.” A big hand trails down my arm, John’s calluses rough, but his touch tender. “I love this scent. And it drives me insane because I don’t know what it is.”

  Ye gods, the way he touches me. It’s gentle affection, but I’m burning up.

  I clear my throat but my voice sounds too thin when I finally answer. “Your elaboration is definitely better than your initial comment.”

  John hums again, his lips brushing my collarbone. “You going to tell me what it is?”

  I honestly have no idea; I wasn’t aware I had a particular scent. And his lips lightly tickling my neck distracting me. “Uh … my shampoo?”

  He gives me another tiny kiss, a little tease of a touch. “Nope,” he murmurs in a low, drugging voice. “It’s in Killian’s apartment too.” His lips press against the underside of my jaw. “Like you’ve fully inhabited every inch of the place.”

  God, it feels too good the way he’s exploring me with those small kisses, as if he can’t really help himself. I can’t either. My hand slowly runs up and down his trim waist. I struggle to keep track of the conversation, and then it hits me. “Oh,” I say, in a burst. “It’s lavender.”

  John pauses for a second. “I hate lavender.”

  “Wait. You hate the way I smell? Stop talking in circles.”

  He sighs. “You’re trying to pick a fight, aren’t you?” He nips my side with his fingers. “We’ll talk about why in a minute.”

  I glare down at his head, not that he sees me. He’s too busy fiddling with my shirt, running a finger along a fold in the fabric.

  His voice stays low. “I’m pretty sure you heard me earlier when I said you smell nice. So it can’t be lavender. I fucking hate lavender. Had this assistant once—June. She loved that crap. Thought it was calming and put all these lavender oil sticks everywhere. Gave me the worst headaches.”

  I can’t help but smile. “There’s a huge difference between cheap essential oils and the actual plant. I have potted lavender on the terrace, in my bedroom, and in the living room. Use bundles of it to keep my clothes smelling fresh.”

  He breathes in deep and then lets it out slowly. Pleasure shivers through me, my skin prickling.

  Kiss me. Let me taste you. I need it. The words stick in my throat. I’m nearly vibrating with want, and he feels it. He has to, because he tenses. For a hot second, I expect him to raise his head and find my mouth with his. But he doesn’t move. Instead, he clears his throat.

  “Thank you for coming to find me,” he says.

  I lie there, slick and burning, not sure what to do with the formality of his tone or the fact that he’s stopped exploring me. “Of course,” I say, staring at his bent head, and the way it makes him appear defeated. Whatever is bothering him still weighs him down. “You want to tell me what set you off?”

  The muscles along his neck and shoulder go rock hard. Though he doesn’t move, I can feel every inch of him withdraw, as if a massive wall has slid between us. “It wasn’t any one thing. It just happened.”

  He’s lying. I don’t know how I know, I just do. But I can’t force trust. I can only support. “You know what I think we should do?”

  John shifts against me, sending a delicious tremor into my lower belly that I studiously ignore.

  “What should we do, Button?” His teasing tone is back, but he’s easing away. So much for sex. Maybe all he really needed was a bit of physical comfort. Despite now being horny as all hell, I don’t begrudge him that. Comforting people is my wheelhouse, and I’m more than happy to give that to John.

  “Order a pizza and watch a movie.”

  The bed barely moves as he flops onto his back and rests his head on his hand. His hair is mussed and there are circles under his eyes, but he doesn’t look lost anymore. “Who gets to pick the movie?”

  “Me. Obviously.”

  He flashes a quick smile. “Obviously. What are you going to torture me with, little mint thief?”

  “For that, I should pick a Twilight marathon.” I smile evilly as John groans. “But I’m feeling magnanimous. I’ll go with the Lord of the Rings trilogy.”

  John stares at me for a long moment, his lips slightly parted. A strange look flits through his eyes, then he slowly smiles. “How did you know those are my favorite movies? No one knows that.”

  Pleased, I smooth back a tuft of his unruly hair from his furrowed forehead. “Because we have scarily similar tastes, remember?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle as he swoops down and gives me a swift, light kiss on the cheek. With that, John rolls over and hauls himself out of the bed. Uttering another groan, he lifts his arms over his head and lean, tight muscles stretch out, exposing a line of flat abs and smooth skin. “You know, Stella,” he says when his arms fall loose and relaxed at his sides, “you’re a Mary Poppins.”

  “Mary Poppins?” I repeat, watching him saunter into the bathroom. “Like a governess?�
��

  He stops in the doorway and glances back. “Practically perfect in every way.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stella

  I’m brewing coffee the next morning when an email comes in from Dr. Stern. At first, I don’t pay it much attention. She reminds me to finish off the last of my antibiotics and stay hydrated. I know this well. But it’s the rest of her report that has the blood slowing in my veins. Apparently, I’m also free of any sexually transmitted diseases.

  It’s not like I don’t remember Dr. Stern asking if I wanted a complete checkup, including blood work for any possible STDs. At the time, I thought it kind of her to be so thorough. Now, however, it has me pausing. Because a forgotten memory flickers to life. She’d said John was worried, that he’d wanted me to get those tests, but that it was up to me to choose. Some fuzzy ignorant part of me had hoped it was his weird way of assuring both of us were safe for sex. But her use of “worried” makes me wonder why.

  Why did John worry specifically if I had an STD? Was this some bullshit throwback to when he believed I was an escort?

  A slow simmer of rage builds and bubbles. But then I think of him slumped in bed, the way he seemed to mentally beat himself up. He’d been hiding something. All through our movie marathon, I’d known. It was there in the tension that kept creeping back up his neck, and in the tightness of his jaw when his attention would flag. Yes, I’d known something was bothering him deeply, but I couldn’t force him to tell me what.

  I’m about to text John and ask, I don’t know what, something, anything to give me a hint about what’s going on, when I get a text from an unknown number.

  Unknown: Hey, this is Brenna. Doing a little PR damage control. Since you’ve been hanging around Jax, they might come to you for questions. If anyone does, just stay calm, say no comment, and get out of there.

  “What the fuck?” What the hell had John done? But I think I know, and it makes my heart plummet.

  My fingers fly over the phone, responding to Brenna so she won’t text again.

  Will do.

  It takes all of two seconds to find the stories. This time, my chest squeezes tight. The way they dig into his personal life makes my skin crawl.