Page 2 of Flat Out
“I know,” I said, pressing my fingertips into the muscles on his neck. He sighed. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Later?”
“Yeah,” I said, rising to my feet and moving to stand between his legs. He immediately circled his arms around my waist and pressed his forehead against my stomach. I carefully massaged his neck with both hands. "Let me see."
"What?" he mumbled, burrowing his face deeper into my wrinkled clothing. God, I was dying to shower, but he needed me first.
"You're wearing a compression vest. Let me see the damage."
With another sigh, Callum pulled back at a tedious pace. I helped him unzip his jacket. He removed the compression vest, the velcro loud in the quiet room, and when it slipped from his shoulders, I sucked in a breath. Bruises in the shape of his straps bloomed across his ribs, chest, and shoulders.
I hummed and then rushed to pull it back over him, pushing his hands away when he tried to zip it back up himself. "D'accord. Time to rest."
He let out a tiny, wrecked laugh. “There it is. The French I love so goddamn much.”
“You’re not off the hook, Fraser. I’m still pissed.” He didn’t argue, but instead let me guide him down, slow and stiff. He hissed with pain, but his hand never let go of mine, tugging me until I was sitting with one leg curled under me and his head was resting against my knee.
“I can't believe you picked my fucking lock,” he said, voice hoarse.
I folded my arms. “What did you expect? Me to wait outside until you were ready?”
“I mean… kinda?”
I loved him so fucking much, it hurt. “I missed you. Besides, you told me to stop running. To stop going through things alone. You think I was gonna let you pull this shit without me showing up?”
He blinked up at me, eyes glassy and tired. “I didn’t want to scare you. Not with how bad it got.”
“You went to the FIA to fight for me, went to the hospital, and then you disappeared. You didn’t text me back, Callum,” I cut in, my voice breaking. “I thought you were done.”
His face crumpled, and his hand flew up to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. “Never. I swear to God—never.”
I leaned forward until our foreheads touched. I was practically folded in half, and my body protested, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered as long as I could let him rest. “You don’t have to hold me up all the time, mon amour.”
"Mmm. That wasn't true in the shower."
Snorting and fighting a blush, I pulled back and brushed the hair from his temples and cheekbones. It was a little longer right now, but it suited him. “Glad to see you think you’re still funny.”
He cracked a smile—barely there, soft and lopsided, but real. “Trying,” he murmured, then his brow furrowed, and something in him shifted. “I missed you.” He didn’t open his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me while he said the next part. “I kept thinking… if I just slept a little more, rested a little longer… I’d be able to show up the way I’m supposed to. Be the man you deserve. Not the one who ghosts you and hides in the dark like some broken mess.” My throat closed so fast I couldn’t speak. “But that was never the point, was it?” he continued, voice so quiet I had to lean in. “You don’t need me to be perfect. You just needed me to be there. And I fucked that up.”
The truth was, I’d been unraveling slowly and quietly in his absence, convincing myself that if I just kept going and kept fighting that it would all fall back into place. It didn’t, though. And now that I was here, I didn’t know how to stop bracing for the next hit. Especially when I was launching a battle against the FIA.
I could’ve told him he was wrong. That he was enough. That just seeing him in the flesh—standing, breathing, here—was enough. But I didn’t, not yet. Instead, I kissed the center of his forehead. Letting my lips linger there like a promise.
Then I pulled back, ran my fingers through his hair again, and whispered, “What was it you told me in Monaco? Oh, right. Tough shit. And by the way, you’re mine. Even bruised and broken and silent and stubborn as hell.”
He exhaled shakily. “Still yours.”
“Still mine.”
His hand slid out from under the blanket, fingers searching. I let him find mine. Let him hold it even though I was still pissed, but love doesn’t vanish when it gets hard. Love shows up—hair a mess, mascara streaked, heart wide open—and picks the goddamn lock.
“Come on,” I said, tugging the blanket up his torso. “Back under, mon champion. Head still pounding?” I asked.
He nodded faintly. “Like it’s trying to make me forget you yelled at my doorbell.”
I kissed the corner of his mouth. “You deserved worse.”
“You love me, though.”
