Chapter 12
JACE MARINO
The elevator doors slid open with a sharp ding, and I bolted out like the world was on fire. My chest ached from running, but all of that burned away the moment I saw him.
He was sitting on the floor by my door, knees pulled up to his chest, my jacket—the one I gave him—draped over his small frame. God. He looked like he belonged there. My heart stopped, then hammered harder than it should.
When he lifted his head and caught me staring, he scrambled to his feet, fumbling at his sleeves, tugging at his clothes like he didn't know what to do with his hands.
Fucking hell. I was gone.
Thirty five years old, and here I am, wrecked by one boy.
He's adorable.
He's beautiful.
He's perfect.
His face is carved like someone had taken their time with him, shaping every angle until it hurt to look.
And those eyes—blue, with a ring of black, so impossibly pure it made me want to shield him from the world. To claim him. To never let go.
Fuck, fuck me, I'm drowning—and I don't want to be saved.
He shifted from foot to foot, swaying, nervous. My gaze locked with his, and I didn't care that I'm staring too long, too openly.
"Hi, sir?" His voice is so small, like it barely made it out of his throat. He flushed crimson, and the sight of it punched the air out of me. Butterflies. Goddamn butterflies. Like I was sixteen again and not supposed to feel this way.
"How are you?" he tried again, clearing his throat, words tripping over each other.
"I was thinking… uh… you haven't texted me about our tutoring session, and I haven't seen you in class for days. I swear I wasn't stalking you, I was just… worried."
His questions tumbled out in quick bursts, each one sharper than the last.
"Are you sick?"
"Did you take a leave from school?"
"Or are you quitting? I know you're… rich rich."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"I'm sorry, I was just worried about you. Can't you say something?"
His voice cracked on the last one, panic threading through it.
"Maybe I should g—"
I closed the space between us before he could finish, my hand brushing against his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his bottom lip. Heat radiated off him, but when my skin touched his, he was cold. Too cold.
"You're freezing," I murmured.
"Huh?" His eyes widened.
"Follow me."
I laced my fingers through his, unlocking the door with the code and tugging him inside. The jacket slipped from his shoulders, and I hung it neatly on the rack before leading him to the kitchen.
"Sit," I told him. He obeyed without question.
I set the kettle, turned up the heater, and moved through the motions like muscle memory while my chest ached with everything unsaid. A mug of steaming tea slid into his hands.
"Thank you," he whispered, taking a small sip. Color returned to his cheeks.
Then his eyes flicked up to me, sharp and curious.
"So… are you going to tell me?"
I hesitated. I wasn't sick. And I wasn't about to lie. He was already worried enough.
"I had business to handle," I said finally.
He nodded, quiet, accepting—but not satisfied.
I dragged the chair out and sat beside him, closer than I needed to be, my knee brushing his.
He tensed when I moved closer. The mug hit the table with a soft clink as he set it down and ran his hands through his hair. His shirt lifted an inch with the motion and I saw it—a dark bruise just below the waistband at his hip.
My stomach dropped hot. I don't think. I just said it. "I will fucking kill whoever laid a hand on you." The words came out harder than I meant and I didn't bother to soften them.
Julian went very still. He looked small then, like the room could swallow him. I reached without thinking, thumb brushing the edge of the red. He let out a breath—short, a sound that feathered across the back of my neck. Being that close, feeling the heat of him… it threw me off worse than I expected.
"What is this?" I asked, not a question so much as a demand. My hand moved across the bruise slow, deliberate.
He stuttered, words lost. "Uhm… er—"
He tipped his head back and we bumped noses, an accidental, intimate touch. His breath hit my face. I couldn't hold the anger coiled in my chest; it turned to something else, sharper and more dangerous.
His right hand came up and landed on my chest. It was trembling. I didn't miss it. Neither of us moved for a heartbeat.
"I will fucking kill anyone who so much as breathes wrong around you." The sentence tore out of me before I could stop it.
His eyes widened. He shifted back and his hand slipped away from my shirt like a small surrender. I hated myself for the words as soon as they left my mouth; his face went thin with something like fear and it punched me in the ribs.
He swallowed. "My best friend—Luka. We were messing around. In the pool." He kept his gaze everywhere but mine.
I didn't let go. I took his hands, held them like I'd anchor him to something solid. The apology was out of me before I knew it. "I'm sorry," I said. It sounded stupid and useless and true.
He blinked, then nodded. "It's… okay." He gave me a small, almost guilty smile.
He smiled. My chest went tight in a way that had nothing to do with rage. I didn't mean to, but I leaned in and kissed his forehead, soft and sudden. It felt like the most natural stupid thing in the world and also like stepping off a cliff.
"I'm sorry," I said again, quieter.
He chuckled—tiny, surprised, warm—and squeezed my hand back. His fingers were small in mine. The squeeze was a promise or a question; I couldn't tell which.
Damn me if I know. But I didn't pull away.