A fair amount of belligerence colors his gaze, but it doesn’t seem directed at me. “It’s my hands. They…they don’t fucking work right.” A small click sounds at the back of his throat when he swallows. “I move them a certain way and they seize up into this.”

Rye lifts a shaking hand. His fingers are curled into a painful-looking claw, the tendons sticking out in sharp relief. Bleakly he stares at me. “Hands, wrists, forearms…It’s fucking agony. And I…I can’t play, Bren.” His voice cracks. “I can’t play.”

The truth surges through me in a horrible rush. The way he’s been evading texting, the missed band meetings, the wariness that lives on the edges of his smile.

I go ice-cold, all his pain and fear flowing in my veins. My lips part, but I don’t know what to say, and he’s all but glaring at me as if he’s terrified I’ll pity him.

Silently, I shake my head, trying to tell him without words that it isn’t like that. Never pity. When he tenses further, his body recoiling, I can’t stop from reaching for him. My fingers close around his fist. I cradle it in my hands.

Rye barely breathes as he blinks down at me. Gently, I run my fingers over his stiff ones, easing my thumb beneath them to rub his palm. “Rye, honey…”

His chest hitches, and I draw his hand up to kiss his knuckles. He lets me. He seems incapable of doing anything more than watching me carefully massage his hand.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

Another flinch. He makes a furtive attempt to pull his hand from mine. I don’t let go, and he sighs, relenting. “No.”

My gaze flicks to his. “Why not?”

Rye tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. “Don’t yell at me, all right?”

“All right.”

Licking his lips, he meets my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

Understanding flows over me. If he goes, it will be real. He might learn the worst. His entire life revolves around his hands.

I lean into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He stiffens for a second but then, with a choked sound, ducks his head and rests his cheek against my temple. I hug him close, smoothing my hands up and down his back.

My lips brush his chest. “You can’t go on like this. It’s tearing you up.”

“I know,” he says after a moment. He trembles then seems to fight it.

I kiss him again before stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of those jeans and we’ll relax.”

Rye narrows his eyes. “Don’t baby me, Bren. I can’t handle your pity.”

I’m already pulling down his half-open zipper. “I’m not going to baby you. I’m going to wrap your hands in a heating pad, then I’m going to trim that damn scraggly beard. After that, I might sit on that massive dick of yours and ride it for my pleasure, but we’ll have to see if you’re still being a grumpy ass.”

A reluctant smile lights his eyes and spreads over his face. “Massive, eh?”

“Enormous, even. The best dick ever.”

Rye snorts, but he lets me help him out of the wet jeans. “Well, when you put it like that.”

It’s only when I have him back in my bathroom, one clenched fist wrapped up and warming, that he catches my free hand with his own. “Brenna.” He pauses, his gaze darting over my face with a pained intensity, as though he can’t find the right words. Or maybe he has and doesn’t know if he should utter them.

Either way, I cup his cheek. Tenderness and a fierce need to protect him turn my voice thick. “I know.” I press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

RYE

Emotionally drained, I sit on the little bench in Brenna’s bathroom. My hands have been tucked into a pair of heated mitts that she uses for her mani-pedi days to get her skin soft—something I find unduly cute. But they work well. She’s wrapped me back up in a terry cloth robe that’s way too small, gaping at my chest and barely reaching my knees. I’d rather go naked, but she’d primly told me to put my dick away while she’s working because it distracts her.

Frankly, I could use a good distraction. Brenna scraped me raw in a way only she can, pushing and prodding at my weakness until there’s nowhere to hide. As usual, I lashed out then tried to run. Only this time, she didn’t let me. This time, she put her hand on me, asked me to stay. This time, she showed me something I’d never seen before when we fought: her concern. Her care.

Despite telling her I don’t need or want her pity, I don’t mind her care. Scratch that. I love her care. She does it so well—efficiently putting all her focus into my comfort in that no-nonsense way of hers that leaves no room for self-pity or doubt. And it works. I relax into her hands, letting her do as she pleases.

I had no idea how much I needed to be touched without any endgame, to be handled like I matter beyond sex. I’m not fooling myself into believing anything has changed in our arrangement. But it’s enough to have me thinking things I shouldn’t.

Weirdly, confessing to her doesn’t make me feel worse. It releases something within me, and with it, I feel lighter, as though maybe the world isn’t about to end, that I can face anything as long as she is there to help me pick up the pieces. Part of me wants to run from that, run far and fast. But I don’t. Because I’m not a fool. Being here with her as she fusses over me is worth it.

I hold still as she rests a hand on my shoulder and leans in to peer at my face.

“You want me to shave it all off?” she asks. “Or give you a nice trim?”

Up close, I’m struck by her beauty. Brenna’s features aren’t conventionally pretty. Her beauty is austere, striking. It is the difference between Vivaldi’s “Spring” and “Winter.” The lilting notes of “Spring” lull you into peaceful compliance, whereas the vibrant tempo of “Winter” stirs the blood and reminds you what it means to be alive. That is Brenna: thrilling, lively, vital.

Her nose is blunt, her face a narrow oval of smooth alabaster skin that glows with good health. Her lips aren’t overly full but are well-shaped and candy pink. But it’s her eyes, the color of fine whisky in firelight, framed by thick auburn lashes that take my breath away. Wide and clear, and I swear they see further into me than anyone else has. Or maybe it’s that I look at them and all rational thought fades. I could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes and it wouldn’t be enough.

Now they’re crinkling at the corners, the space between them furrowed in concern.

“Rye?”

Right. I’m staring. I clear my throat. “What do you prefer?”

God, she smells good. Fresh from the bath, spicy-sweet like some exotic flower laced with fruit. Stupid, I know. But I can’t describe it any other way. It’s just fucking good. A drug. I draw in more of her scent as she bites the inside of her lower lip and contemplates.

“You want me to pick?”

“Well, yeah.” My mouth quirks. “I’m the one going down on you on the regular, so…”

I freaking love the way she blushes berry red. It rushes up from her neck and washes over her entire face. I know she hates it, so I bite back a smile.