Page 17 of Killing Me Softly

“And the evening?”

“That’s down to you. But it better involve you bending me in half.”

“Oh, it will. Don’t worry about that.” Kenny scooted around the table, sliding a hand on the small of Aaron’s back and pressed his lips to his ear. “Got a few other positions up my sleeve, too.”

“That what you do all day at the back of a dull-arse conference? Doodle positions you wanna get me in later on the branded stationery?”

“Of course.”

“Well, all right. But not til after we see the sun set at the Bunkers del Carmel, though.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

With a spark under his skin, Aaron carried that promise with him for the rest of the day as they drifted through the city’s winding streets, golden light spilling between timeworn stone buildings. He felt the grit of sand between his toes, warm and unexpected, not telling Kenny he’d never set foot on a beach before, as he didn’t want to admit how many firsts he still carried like bruises no one could see. Then by evening, they were perched high above it all at the Bunkers del Carmel, the city stretching out below them.

He’d read about this place. A hidden viewpoint the locals whispered about, where Barcelona sprawled below like a glittering sea. Now, with the city thrumming beneath them, an endless stretch of golden lights and distant echoes of life, Aaron let himself be still.

The world felt hushed. As if they’d crept into some forgotten pocket of time where nothing could reach them. Where no one could find them. Where maybe, just maybe, they could exist outside of everything trying to tear them apart. And as the last sliver of sun melted into the horizon, night folding around them, Aaron threw out what his heart said in beats.

“Do we have to go home?”

Kenny didn’t answer right away. Aaron hadn’t expected him to answer at all.

But then, soft and assuredly, Kenny said, “No.”

Aaron let out a quiet snort, the sound almost lost to the breeze. “Maybe I could play piano in that ballroom bar. And youcould run a therapy practice for homesick expats who can’t hack being away from the rain.”

“I’m not trained for that.”

“Fine. You can piss about with Spanish crims instead. I’m sure they’d keep you busy.”

Kenny chuckled, then lifted Aaron’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Nah. I can write books about crims from anywhere.”

Aaron turned to him, searching his face for something. Hope? Truth? Maybe both. “Yeah?”

Kenny held his gaze, unflinching and intense, in that maddening way that chipped a little more at the cracks in his armour. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, Kenny’s voice broke the quiet. “Maybe one day.”

Aaron smiled. It wasn’t a vow. Wasn’t a fantasy.

He didn’t need one.

But the stars above them burned brighter as the city blurred below, and in the stillness, Aaron let himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe they really could belong to each other. For as long as life let them. Which, in his experience, might not be that long.

Because life had a way of catching up with him.

And it never let him keep the good things for long.

Chapter Five

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart

The flight home felt like a bump back to reality.

The hum of the plane engines droned around Kenny like white noise as he scrolled through his emails on his laptop. He read the same sentence three times, absorbing none of it. Aaron sat next to him, foot up on the seat in front, knee poking out of his ripped jeans, face slumped in his hand as he stared blankly out of the window. He had his earbuds in, listening to whatever made him numb.Distant. The pale light of the sky softened his profile, but his expression was achingly familiar. Kenny recognised that glassy-eyed detachment serving as his shield. Aaron was already retreating into himself, building those surrounding walls in case he needed them. Kenny fearedhe wouldn’t be able to climb them again if Aaron didn’t stop layering the bricks.

Kenny exhaled, pressing his fingers into his temple. He understood the isolation because it coiled in his chest too, a constriction of inevitability. The problem with clarity—the kind they’d found in Barcelona—was that it made returning to uncertainty unbearable.

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