He hadn’t invited me.

He’d made it obvious I wasn’t welcome.

I followed him regardless.

I waited while he kicked off his boots and yanked down his jeans. He didn’t look to see if his stripping affected me. The vodka haze had given him blinders, making him focus on one thing and one thing only.

He swayed as he struggled to jerk his jeans from his feet, then grumbled as he wrestled his T-shirt over his head.

Unlike his clothing, his skin was clean from blood and mud. His muscles stood out with definition that seemed almost barbaric—as if he hadn’t eaten properly in months and his body fought hard to maintain the power it had created. His biceps bunched as he buried his face in both hands and groaned as if trying to find the strength to carry on and not let his demons win.

Wading from the pile of clothing, he cut across the small room in just his boxer-briefs and tumbled face first onto his bed on the floor. His back rippled with more muscle as he hugged a pillow and gave into liquor-induced lethargy.

He hadn’t looked at me.

He hadn’t told me to leave or stay or showed any sign he cared either way.

I had no idea what to do.

I’d prepared for another battle. I’d fallen asleep writing scripts on how to respond to the inevitable argument. But how was I supposed to argue with someone who’d shut down and blocked me out?

I stood like a ghost at the end of his bed, studying him as he breathed slow and deep. His arms rippled with tension as he hugged the pillow as if throttling it, silencing it, doing his best to still the chaos inside him.

He might seem quiet on the outside, but his thoughts filled the room with noise. Angry, vengeful, trapped. A noise that scratched my skin and made me search the corners for a malicious enemy.

Everything about Gil spoke of a man who ought to have it all—wealth, fame, talent. Yet, something was missing in him. Something fundamental—as if his soul had been ripped from him and left him with just a wasteland filled with darkness.

I hugged myself as another wash of goosebumps found me.

What the hell was in that locked room? Was someone in there? What had he dealt with to be this wretched?

Questions ran riot. Anxiety lived in nervous heartbeats. I tried to formulate a question that would tell me everything. To learn in one swoop what’d happened to him so I could ease the brittle affliction wrapped tight around his heart.

But Gil had dealt with whatever hurt him by his own method. He’d tried to drown out the noise, delete the pain, and for a single breath, he looked as if he’d won a hard-earned moment of peace.

As much as I needed to know, I couldn’t take that peace away from him. I couldn’t ask him to step back into the storm he carried.

No matter what he’d done, run from, or was involved in, I couldn’t be the cause of more agony.

Not right now.

Padding toward his mattress, I lowered to my knees and crawled over to him.

He didn’t need an inquisition. He needed silence.

A friend.

Family.

He tensed as I lay beside him. His eyes never opened, and his forehead tugged low into a harsh frown. His hand disappeared under his pillow, clutching something small and furry.

Without a word, I tugged up the edge of the pillow to see what he held.

My heart promptly bled out. No tourniquet or bandage could stop the flow.

Tears spilled from me as his face screwed up in torment, clutching the stuffed owl in his fist.

An owl.

A silly child’s toy.

A toy with woodland feathers and big, soulful eyes.

Owl...for O.

“Gil...” Ripping my hand from the pillow, I cradled his cheek instead. He shivered as I bent to nuzzle his nose with mine, our faces wedged against fresh cotton, the reek of alcohol unwelcome.

“What are you hiding?” I moaned, kissing his lips with sadness. “It’s killing you, can’t you see? You have to tell someone.”

His skin turned ashen as he pulled away from my kiss, shaking his head as if he couldn’t stand the connection.

He lay on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes, erasing the outside world.

Erasing me.

But I didn’t let him.

Straddling him in bed, I bowed over him and cupped his cheeks. Rolling my spine, I cradled him, giving him shelter with my body, kissing him again. I kissed him shallowly and sweetly, all while tears plopped from my cheeks to his, running along his jawline and down his throat.

He trembled worse with every heart-pound. His skin turned icy, and another noise of a wounded prey and furious predator grumbled in his chest. He shuddered the longer I kissed him, withdrawing into places I couldn’t follow.

He didn’t shove me away, but second by second, his unyielding tension hinted that having me on top wasn’t enjoyable for him. I tasted his reluctance in the kisses he refused to return. I felt it in the snow rapidly chilling his skin.

His trembles were that of someone who would face a monster but knew the price was death if he did.

Ripping my mouth from his, I sat up and rolled off him, swiping at my tears and confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

His jaw worked, and he shook his head sharply.

He didn’t speak as if words were too much to bear.

“God, I’m—” I sniffed and plucked at his blankets. “All I want to do is help. I want to prove you can trust me. I want you to know that, despite your secrets and my fear of what you’re hiding, I’m not walking away. I want to help you, Gil, but everything I do only seems to make it worse.”

His body stayed tight and unmovable.

I inched farther away from him, giving him space.

A few seconds after I shifted, he slowly came alive again. His arm slipped from his eyes, and he blinked as if disoriented. As if he didn’t recognise his room, this night...me.

His green gaze met mine and, once again, that heart-breaking suspicion of tears hurt me worse than any curse or fist.

I’d never known him to show his emotions at school. I’d seen him bleeding and bruised, sleep deprived and starving, yet he’d never once looked on the brink of breaking.

Not like now.

And that drained me of my silly attempt at being his strength because if Gilbert Clark—the boy who took on the world without one whinge about injustice—could look so perfectly destroyed, something was seriously, seriously wrong.

“It’s me, Gil. Just me.” I itched to reach out and touch him, but I refrained.

The sigh that escaped him was full-bodied and from his soul. It whistled through his chest, gusted from his lips, and left his body boneless in relief.

I waited for him to ask me to leave.

For his previous commands to be obeyed.

Instead, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me down beside him. With shaky fingers, he positioned me until we lay facing each other. His eyes searched mine, fast and probing. His fingers caressed hair behind my ear. He arched closer and pressed a kiss to my forehead with such sweet-hearted tenderness my heart cried.

He still didn’t speak, but his touch spoke volumes.

Stay.

Please.

I need you.

I nodded, placing my hands on his naked chest. The flutter of his heart singed my fingertips.

His lips thinned. His skin hadn’t lost the ashen pallor of before. He inhaled deep, and, ever so slowly, bent to kiss me.

Our breath connected first, plaiting together with hesitation and want. Our lips met next, exquisitely soft and velvet. We stayed in that bubble of anticipation for ages. Butterflies gathered, desire quickened, the sensation of such a breakable kiss was so different to the aggressive, explosive arousal we’d shared before.

This was paper thin and precious. This wasn’t two adults experienced in lovemaking, but two teenagers who’d been in love for so damn long.