Page 117 of Reckless Hearts
“I’m so tired, but I don’t know if I can sleep right now,” he mumbles. “I don’t know if I can shut down my brain.”
“How about I run you a bath?”
“Okay.”
The bath is decadent, all marble tiles and gold taps. I sprinkle in some bath salts that promise stress-relieving properties. I get the feeling Seb could use them right now.
Then I help Seb out of his clothes, gently peeling off his shirt and jeans. He’s pliant under my touch, too tired to do much more than lift his arms when I ask.
My heart clenches when I slip off his nerdy science pun T-shirt. I run my hands soothingly down his arms and press a soft kiss to his forehead.
“I better get in too,” I say.
He rustles up a half-smile. “Okay.”
Seb is naked in my arms, and it’s been months since we’ve been together in person. But nothing sexual is happening right now. Seb’s weight settles against me, his back to my chest. He melts into me, trusting me to keep him afloat.
My arms encircle him, palms flat against his stomach. Our legs tangle together in the warm water, his bony knees bumping against mine.
The rise and fall of his chest syncs with mine, a steady rhythm in the quiet bathroom.
I kiss his temple, his damp hair curling against my cheek. I nuzzle closer, breathing him in deeply.
He closes his eyes, and the furrow between his brows disappears, his lips parting slightly. The relief I feel at seeing the tension leave his face makes my chest tighten.
Is this what love is?
I’ve never thought myself capable of love.
You are everything to me, I want to whisper to him.
But I can’t.
Because that would be promising him more than I’m capable of giving.
I can be reckless with my own heart. I refuse to be reckless with his.
26
Seb
My father gets better slowly.
Marcus extends his stay, citing personal reasons on social media. Having him here feels surreal, like two separate worlds colliding. I catch myself staring at him sometimes. The guy whose face is plastered across billboards selling designer cologne is now squashed into a hospital chair that seems designed by someone who hates the concept of comfort.
The machines surrounding Dad’s bed thin out, replaced by get-well cards and the low murmur of daytime TV.
It’s two steps forward, one step back—Dad’s triumphant first walk down the hospital corridor was followed by extreme exhaustion the next day. But slowly, surely, he’s recovering.
Marcus’s phone buzzes constantly with messages from Jake. He tries to shield me from it, but I catch glimpses of all-caps texts and hear snatches of tense conversations. It’s like watching a long-distance tug-of-war, with Marcus caught between his career obligations and his desire to be here.
“I’ve been needing a holiday,” Marcus says. “Jake just needs to suck it up.”
“Some holiday,” I say.
“I’m finding parts of it quite appealing, actually,” he says as he kisses my shoulder.
We’re lying in bed, Marcus’s arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Our skin is sticky with sweat, the sheets a rumpled mess around us.
