“You kissed me,” he cuts in with a rasping voice. “The night we met. I was infected then and didn’t know it.”

His eyes lower and he studies his clenched fists.

“Oh,” I say.

A snort leaves him. “Yeah, oh.”

In the resounding silence I hear the blood rushing through my veins. I’ve hurt him.

He sighs and runs his hand over his messy hair. “As soon as I found out, I asked Dr. Stern about that kiss. If you were safe. She assured me it was okay. But I kind of freaked when you had a sore throat.”

I would have too. Logic doesn’t always listen when fear shouts in your head.

He stares up at me with solemn eyes. “I should have told you. But fuck if I could find a good way to say, oh, hey, I know you don’t think the best of me but let me add one more thing to the list.”

“I don’t think badly of you, John.” He has to know that.

His fists clench, then he flexes his fingers as if trying to shake something off. “I’m tainted, Stella.”

“You are not tainted,” I grind out. “A good round of antibiotics will clear you up and life goes on.”

He snorts, his brows winging up with a look of bemused irritation. “I took the meds. I am clean now. I have been for two weeks.”

“Then what you do mean—”

“Because that label will always hang over me,” he cuts. “Jax Blackwood, tainted. A pathetic joke. Fuckup—”

“Stop,” I snap. “Just stop that crap right now.”

He frowns at me. “What crap?”

“You think you’re tainted and pathetic because you contracted an STD? Do you know how many people contract diseases? How many people have died because of one? Are you really going to sit there and call them that?”

His expression turns mulish, and he glances away.

I push on. “I doubt many people go looking to get a disease. And even if they weren’t acting responsibly, should that matter? Don’t put that shame on them, on yourself. Don’t be one of those people who acts like their shit doesn’t stink, who think that by shaming others who have fucked up or face misfortune, it will protect them from unfortunate things befalling them as well. It’s false comfort at best, and there’s already too much judgment in the world as it is.”

John rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Can we skip the lecture? I’m simply telling you what the world already thinks of me.”

“I don’t give a shit what the world thinks of you, and neither should you.”

His brows snap together. “Just like that, huh?”

“Yes.”

Red flushes over his cheeks as he sits up and leans toward me. “Until that tidal wave of judgment washes your way, you haven’t got a clue. No, I don’t want to give a shit what people think, but I do. I feel it. Right here.” He stabs at his chest with his thumb. “I feel it every time I walk outside and someone recognizes me. They used to look at me with adoration. Now, it’s either pity or a smirk or both, and I fucking hate it. But most of all, I hate that I care.”

His words ring in the ensuing silence between us. Anger crackles over him, his chest rising and falling in agitation. I don’t avert my eyes; it feels like a betrayal to do so.

I clear my throat, swallowing the need to touch him. “I’m sorry. It was out of line to get all self-righteous on you. You’re right; I don’t have a clue how it must feel.” I raise a hand, then let it fall. “I’m sorry.”

All the stiffness leaves him on a heavy exhale, and he sinks back onto the couch cushions. “Ah, hell, don’t give me that look. I can’t take it.”

“What look? I’m not giving a look.” I’m honestly not—my contrition is real.

He tilts his head my way, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m not. I swear, John.”

The smile grows. But it’s thin and weary. “It’s a look, all right. Those big, sad blue eyes, full of worry and regret. It hurts to see it.”

My lips twitch and I fight my own smile, because I know he isn’t angry anymore. “It upsets me that I added to your grief. I was trying to be helpful.”

His laugh is husky. “Stella Button, you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but I like that you’re willing to fight my battles. Even if you’re fighting me while doing it.”

Relief flows through me, taking the strength from my knees. “Well, then, I should probably confess that I meant what I said.”

He snorts. And it sounds an awful lot like “No shit, Stells.”

I choose to ignore it. “You are not tainted or pathetic. I will never see you that way.”

As soon as I say the words, I’m embarrassed. Not because they aren’t true, but it feels like they’ve revealed too much, and he’s too silent. We’re facing each other, but I can’t really look him in the eye. Maybe he can’t either because his gaze is hazy, almost lost.

Uncomfortable heat cramps my insides and pricks at my skin. I want to turn and walk away, but I can’t move. That too would reveal things I don’t want seen.

A deep breath moves through him like a sigh, and then he blinks as though coming out of a fog. When he looks at me again, his eyes are bright, like green glass in the sun. A man’s eyes shouldn’t be that expressive. It makes a woman forget to keep up her defenses.

“Stells,” he whispers, “where have you been all my life?”

A lump rises in my throat. “Drifting.”

The corner of his lip quirks. “Well, stop. Don’t drift away.”

“Okay.” It’s a croak of sound, my chest too tight for more.

His expression twists and becomes pained. “You wouldn’t be so quick to agree if you really knew what I was thinking.”

My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What are you thinking, John?”

From beneath lowered lids, he watches me, his long, lean body suddenly loose and languid on the couch. “I want to kiss you.”

My breath escapes in a whoosh. “Just that?”

God, please do it. Over and over.

“For now,” he says quietly. But I see him retreating into himself.

It’s shame. No matter what I say, he still believes he’s damaged goods.

“And if I want you to do more than kiss me?” I ask, pushing.

The light in his eyes dims further. “Button …” His voice cracks and he swallows. “You’ve got to learn not to take me seriously. I say stupid shit all the time. I’m not the guy for you.”

My heart drops to my toes. I should believe him; why would he lie? There’s a thread of truth in his words. I can hear it clearly. I should let it go. The voice in my head—the one that always seems to show up and tell me that I’m a failure—is insisting that I’d never have a chance with a man like John. He is a legend and I’m just plain old me.

Thing is, I hate that bitch; she’s ruled too much of my life as it is. I suspect most of us have a similar voice, an invasive naysayer who tries its best to make us hate ourselves. I suspect John has one that turns into a full-on scream some days.

I take a deep breath, press my cold palms to my hips. “It was bullshit, then? You wanting to kiss me?”

The muscles along his torso and arms visibly clench. And for a second, I wonder if he won’t answer me. But then he does, all hard tones and rasping pain. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we met and you stole one from me. I want to learn your flavor, the sounds you make, how you’ll move against me when I taste you.”