Page 158 of Piece Us Together

I laugh. “So is Maison. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“I’m not too concerned. Have you noticed that Mr. Bad Ass seems to be losing his act around me these days? I bet if I asked him to cuddle, he’d melt into a beautiful blushing mess.”

“Okay, I take it back, you can absolutely tell him I told you.”

He laughs, all warm and syrupy, before adjusting me so my head can fit perfectly on his shoulder and I can see the TV.

“I’m assuming Maison would be sad if we continued our superhero marathon without him, so we’re back to square one on what to watch.”

“What have you been watching on your own?”

He smirks. “A documentary series about the Vietnam War.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

“I’m a history nerd. I can’t help myself.”

“That’s what you teach at the college, right? History?” I ask, realizing I really don’t know much about him. He likes to watch Maison and me, usually sitting quietly as the two of us do our thing, studying us, enjoying us. He’s spent the last week soaking in everything we were willing to share with him. I feel awful as I realize we didn’t do the same. Not nearly enough, at least.

“Yes, I do.” He sounds brighter, almost excited, to be asked about his job. It’s kind of adorable.

“Like—all of history? Or a specific time or something?”

“Well, each degree needs at least one history class as a general education credit, so us newer professors get to teach those classes, which are always very broad in scope and time. I’m an expert on World War II, so I teach a class about the war from theAmerican perspective, then from the European perspective, then from the Japanese perspective. Those rotate, though, all three aren’t available every semester. Right now, we’re doing it from the European perspective. I also have a class on the impact of society on war and vice versa, examining things like propaganda and economy and workforce changes. Then I—well,” he pauses, looking away from me. I don’t understand why until he says, quietly, “This year, I’m co-teaching with a professor from the psychology department.”

I know he doesn’t give me the topic for a reason. I’m nosey, though. Or just a masochist. “What’s that one about?”

He takes a breath. “PTSD, basically. She teaches about the psychological aspect of it, how it develops, how it manifests, as well as how it’s treated—both then and now. I come at the topic from a historical perspective, considering the effect it has on a society as a whole.”

I rest my head back on his shoulder, feeling the sudden urge to hide. I can’t think of anything to say except, “Oh.”

“Nolan, I—” He pauses, taking a deep breath. I hate the hesitation. It’s not him. He’s a confident man. He hardly ever wavers. “I know Maison doesn’t want to share some things with me. I know he might never be willing to.” He takes another breath. “But the two of you can always talk to me about what you’re dealing with, okay? Even if you have to be vague. Even if you have to leave parts out. And if you ever need me to back off about it, you can just tell me and I’ll respect it. I won’t push. But I’m here.”

“What gave me away?” I ask, trying to sound amused and failing pretty hard.

“I put some things together. It wasn’t hard, once you opened up a little during our negotiation talk last week.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think most of all, though, is Maison’s protective behavior. The level he brings it to with youisn’t just a worried boyfriend—it’s a scared one. It’s a man who has lost someone or come damn close to it. A man who has failed at protecting before, or feels like he failed, which is just as harmful. He’s not possessive of you, he’s defensive.”

I don’t know if I’m relieved that he’s talking like I’m the only one with PTSD or disappointed. A part of me hoped he’d figured it out for Maison, too. Without that information, he won’t be able to give Maison what he needs, not fully. It’s not my place to tell him, though.

“You still want me? Knowing I’m—knowing I have that kind of baggage?”

“Nothing about either of your pasts could make me not want you, Nolan. My love isn’t conditional.”

Either of your pasts.

I can’t help it. I have to know. “Have you figured out Maison too?”

He hesitates, but admits, “Yes. To a point, at least. It’s clear there’s a story. Multiple stories, probably. I have a feeling it’s not all related to war, either. The kind of marks he has—those don’t come from a battlefield.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling unbelievably relieved that he sees this. “They don’t.”

“Do they—” He stops himself, shaking his head.

“No, you can ask,” I say, even as I curl my hands into the fabric of his shirt to hide that they’re shaking. “If I can’t answer, I’ll tell you.”

He seems to consider it still. He runs his fingers along my back as he does, the sensation muted by Maison’s sweatshirt, but somehow still as good. It feels like both of them are touching me this way, Hunter and Maison together against my skin. It’s probably silly, but I like the thought too much to push it away.

“I was going to ask if his scars come from the same source as yours, but I don’t think I want you to answer that. As much as itkills me to be in the dark about all of your struggles, I don’t want to know his part until he’s ready to tell me himself.”

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