“Why would you?”
“Think what you will of me, but I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“If that were true, you would’ve visited me at the hospital.”
“I did—” He cuts himself off and looks away. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Look at me.”
He slowly does, and an uncharacteristic sheen of pain covers his face.
“You visited? How come I never saw you?”
“You were sleeping.” He rubs the back of his head. “I managed to sneak past Jeremy and Gareth when they were speaking to the doctor. But I had to leave soon after since Lan came looking for me and was about to start more drama.”
So he was there.
I wasn’t imagining him sitting beside me and stroking my hair.
Is that tidbit supposed to make me feel this fucking giddy?
Cold. You have to be cold or this won’t work.
I head to the elevator, not waiting to see if he follows. He does, trudging behind me. The trip is spent in suffocating silence aside from the sound of water dripping from our clothes onto the floor.
Or my struggle to stop myself from ogling his transparent shirt.
A part of me wants to corner him and feast on his lips, take my fill for the weeks he’s been out of my life.
That’s a lie.
Since I first saw him, he’s never been out of my life. Not really.
I have to hold myself back and not touch him, not fall first this time, because if I do, I’ll just slip back into the pattern I ended things for.
This time, it’ll be different.
The elevator dings and I stroll inside the penthouse. Behind me, I can sense Bran watching the space as if relearning it or searching for something he left.
I go into the bedroom and come back with towels and a change of clothes.
He nods and clears his throat as if chasing away something stuck there. “Thanks.”
I say nothing as I walk back into the bedroom, strip down, dry myself, and then put on shorts.
Forget about the shirt. I don’t like them and I won’t pretend to now.
When I return to the living room, I find Bran has also changed into the gray shorts and white T-shirt I gave him. They’re loose and unflattering, but he’d look annoyingly hot in a potato sack.
Also, I really, really love seeing him in my clothes. I have to look away because I’m starting to get hard at the view.
He’s putting his things in the washing machine and calls out, “Nikolai, bring your wet clothes when you’re finished.”
Even though I’m already here, I go back and get everything I left on the bathroom floor.
There’s no other way to describe the look he gives me other than snobbish disregard.
“You couldn’t put them in something? They’re dripping all over the place.”
“Okay, Mom,” I mock.
He yanks the clothes from my hands with an exasperated sigh and puts them in with his—except the white shirt that he has on the rack near the balcony door. No whites with colors is apparently a rule when doing laundry.
He reaches into the cabinet above him and brings out the detergent, softener, and some other thing that’s apparently good for the skin. Once he’s done with that useless routine, he sets the washing machine program.
Then he walks to the kitchen, puts the kettle on—that he bought, because I couldn’t care less for tea—and retrieves some herbal tea infusions that have remained untouched since he stopped coming here.
I can’t help standing there and watching him move around the area as if he never left. His movements are easier now, and he no longer looks like he’s walking on thin ice around me.
“You don’t have milk?” he asks, head shoved in the fridge.
“No, Grandma,” I mock again.
He glares at me. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“Completely unorganized. You’re no different than a savage.”
I throw my weight on the sofa and splay my arm on the back. “More like you’re neurotically organized.”
“I just like things in order.”
“Isn’t that a thing called OCD?”
“No, it’s not. Don’t throw those terms around if you don’t understand them.”
“Yes, sir.”
He grabs the kettle and gives me the side-eye. “Are you done being sarcastic?”
“Are you done nitpicking?”
He shakes his head with clear displeasure.
Usually, I’d grin and even get in his space, but I’m trying to be cold, so I just watch him.
I missed having him here, even if he’s always being an asshole about everything. It was like a fucking prison without him.
Right now, it feels as if he never left.
He pours the hot water in a transparent pot over the herbs, then he puts it on a tray with two cups and brings it over.
Bran sits across from me with the tray on the coffee table between us. The sound of the thunderstorm and pouring rain is the only noise for a while.
“What’s the stupid herbal tea name this time?”
“Lemon and ginger,” he says and then looks at his watch to measure the time.
If it were the past, I would’ve filled the silence and pounced on any opportunity to talk to him, be near him. I would’ve been right beside him by now, either coaxing his head on my thigh or using his as a pillow.
Right now, however, I force myself to remain both still and silent, my fingers digging into the back of the sofa to stop them from doing something stupid and ruining my plan.
Bran stares at his watch for what seems like forever before he finally looks up and releases a long sigh. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To hear your answer to my question earlier. Do you want us to be over?”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. Lightning strikes, casting a harsh glow on his handsome face as thunder rumbles in the distance. The silence stretches for a few heavy seconds before he bows his head and shakes it once.
I have to suppress a smile because, fuck me, he’s so damn hot.
Can I just fuck him?
No, Kolya. Control your fucking libido for once and stay on standby.
“Use your words. And look at me.”
He slowly lifts his head, his eyes plunging into mine. Rain beating down on the roof lingers for a few agonizing beats before he speaks in a strained voice. “Do I have to say it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t want to end it.” His voice is so low, I can barely hear him. “Happy now?”
“No.”
“What… Why?”
“I won’t go back to the way things were.”
His lips part and he pulls on his stupid hair as his voice comes out strained, choked, even. “Then why did you ask? Why did you bring me here? Is this…a game?”
“Maybe.”
“If you think you can play me—”
“Why the fuck can’t I? Didn’t you play me enough?”
“I…did not.”
“We have different opinions about that.” I lean closer in my seat. “Here’s how it will go, Brandon. I don’t give a fuck if you come out or not. That’s your decision. But you will not leave after every time either.”
“But everyone at home—”
“I’m not hearing it. If you want me, this is how you’ll get me.”
“And if I can’t?”