Page 58 of Reckless

His throat moved. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” I said. “And because I think you’ll like it.”

His chin jerked in a sharp nod. I let go of his face and moved to the sofa and sat. Then I pointed at the floor in front of the sofa.

Robbie lowered himself to the rug. His back was against the sofa cushions, his head level with my knees. I set my mug on the side table and let my hand drift down to his hair.

The crackly sound of the old jazz record filled the silence. I ran my fingers through Robbie’s hair, slow and steady, the way he did with Gerty’s mane.

“There,” I said. “Tell me about your day.”

He let his head fall back against my hand. His eyes closed. For a moment I thought he wouldn’t speak, and then he said, “Fixed a fence. Sam helped.”

“Or didn’t, I’m guessing.”

His mouth twitched, and then the faint smile vanished. He kept his eyes closed and said, “I told Kat. About me. About us.”

I tugged a curl into straightness just to watch it spring back again. “And how did that go?”

He opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling for a moment before he closed them again. “Good. It was good.” There was a hint of wonder in his tone.

“I’m glad.” I rubbed the outer shell of his ear. “I’m very glad.”

He sank deeper against me.

I carded his hair for a long time. The record played through, the needle lifting at the end with a soft mechanical click. I didn’t move to flip it. The rain kept falling. My fingers kept moving through the damp strands at his temples, across the short bristle at his nape, tracing the shell of his ear until he shivered.

“How’s that?” I murmured.

“Good.”

“Just good?”

He opened his eyes. Looked up at me from the floor. In the dim light his face was all shadows and bones, and his eyes were shining with moisture. He blinked rapidly.

“It’s the safest I’ve felt in years,” he said.

My hand stilled.

“I don’t know how to say things like that,” he added. “Properly. I don’t have the words.”

“You just did.”

He held my gaze. Then he turned his head and pressed his mouth to the inside of my wrist, where the pulse beat close to the skin. His lips were warm and dry. He kept them pressed there, just resting, and I felt something crack open in my chest.

“Stand up,” I said.

He did so slowly, the way he did everything. I rose with him and took his hands and pulled him out into the hallway and towards the stairs. Upstairs, in my bedroom, the bed was unmade from the night before—the pillows were still pushed together, sheets faintly holding the shape of two bodies.

I stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face him. “Take off your jumper.”

Robbie pulled it over his head. His T-shirt came with it, catching on his ears, and when he emerged his hair was mussed and his chest was bare. The bruising on his chest and side had faded to yellow-green, a watercolour smear across his ribs. I reached out and laid my palm flat against it. He didn’t flinch.

“Does it hurt?”