Page 160 of Meet Me In The Dark
Steering him toward the kitchen, I guide him onto a stool when he misjudges the distance and almost misses it.
A minute later, I set a large glass of water in front of him before switching on the coffee machine.
“Drink,” I tell him.
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue.
I slide him a plate with a slice of pizza, then another.
“You can’t keep showing up here like this, Julian.”
I think he mumbles an apology, but I can’t be sure.
The coffee maker clicks off. I pour him a cup and push it across. “Careful, it’s hot.”
That stupid grin is back on his face. “Like you.”
“Stop it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says before offering me a weak salute.
He takes a sip of coffee and winces. “Strong.”
“That’s the point.”
Up close, I notice things most people wouldn’t see—the faint lines carved deeper into his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. I see every invisible crack and carefully hidden fracture.
Somewhere between our reckless kisses, his protective silences, and the moments he looks at me like he’s drowning, I’ve learned him. I’ve learned the Julian beneath the suits and ruthless power. I can tell when he’s hurting. Pain recognizes pain, and it terrifies me how much I want to reach out and pull him free. How much I want to show him he isn’t alone.
God help me, but I think I’ve fallen in love with the darkest parts of this man.
Which is wildly inconvenient when he is currently stealing my dinner.
I clear the plates, come back, and he’s slouched against the counter, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Inhaling, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and count back from five before slinging his arm over my shoulders. “Up you get.”
It takes effort, but he finally stands so I can guide him down the hall.
“I can leave.” The words are sluggish but stubborn.
“And get yourself killed on the way?” I shoot him a look. “Forgive me if I don’t want that on my conscience.”
His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the strength.
In the bedroom, he flops back onto the mattress like a dead weight.
“This big fucker,” I curse under my breath as I take his hands and tug. “Get up.”
When he finally sits up, he grabs my waist and rests his head on my stomach.
I fight the need to touch him, but I don’t have it in me tonight. I’m exhausted.
He groans against my skin when I slide my fingers through his hair and massage his scalp.
“I’m still angry at you,” I whisper.
“Good.” His voice is muffled against me. “You should be. I’m angry at myself, too.”
