Page 10 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

TEN

Enzo

The words were out before I could stop them, and I had no idea why I’d said them. I’d researched heterochromia almost as soon as Robbie had arrived, because I’d never seen anything as beautiful and unique as his eyes—one iris a warm, hazel green and the other a shade so pale it was almost silver. I knew he wanted to hide them, so he wore those dull brown contacts most of the time. Somehow, since he’d started wearing the contacts I’d become one of the few people who saw him without them.

But I wasn’t supposed to be telling him his eyes were stunning, for fucks sake—maybe it was the way he’d been looking at me—uncertain but hopeful—or perhaps I was too damn tired to keep my thoughts locked down anymore. Either way, I wanted to snatch the words right back when I heard myself say it.

Robbie blinked, confusion flickering across his face as if he’d misheard me. “Oh,” he said, voice quiet and unsure, like he was still figuring out the words even as they left his mouth.

Heat surged up my neck, burning hotter than wildfire as Robbie pushed away his half-eaten pasta. My heart thumped painfully, and I knew I’d screwed up. What the hell had possessed me to say that?

Desperate to fix things, I reached out and touched the back of his hand, my fingers barely grazing his skin. He closed his eyes, and I knew I’d made things shit. Only he scooted closer to me and then straddled my lap, his face in my neck.

“I’m didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” I murmured, keeping my voice quiet and careful. I didn’t want to make things worse. He paused, and I braced myself for him to tell me to fuck off and leave him alone. Instead, he glanced up at me and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it for a moment.

“I wish I could feel beautiful for someone like you.”

“Fuck, Robbie…” The second the words left my mouth, horror consumed his expression, and he shoved away from me so fast the chair rocked.

“I mean—shit—never mind, forget it.”

In his rush to the sink, he was close to tripping over my feet, gripping the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The tension in his shoulders drawn tight enough that I half expected him to snap.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He didn’t look at me, his knuckles white where his hands clung to the counter. “I mean… I don’t know why I said that.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” I insisted. “I was the idiot who spoke first. If anything, I should be the one embarrassed.” I paused. “Your eyes are beautiful, Robbie. But I didn’t mean to dig up anything. I just…” I shook my head. “I just said something stupid, okay? We’re good.”

Finally, he turned to face me, flushed.

“I’m a mess,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it himself.

“You’re not a mess.”

“I am.” He rubbed his hands down his face and his breath hitched, and for a second, I thought he might cry.

“Good Mac and Cheese,” I changed the subject, trying to keep it light.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice low.

We’d usually read at the table after we’d eaten, Robbie lost in one of his books, while I skimmed through a car magazine. Other times, we’d watch a movie. He liked familiar ones, things he’d seen before—like they brought him comfort. Some nights we’d hug, and he’d read on my lap. It was just the way it was. He was mine to care for, and my complicated emotions were put on hold for every second he was in my arms.

I’d set up a movie and get him upstairs to chill.

I needed that. He needed that.

I was halfway to the stairs when his voice stopped me. “Enzo?”

“Yep?”

“Before you go, can I have one last hug?”

I turned back. Robbie was already standing, fidgeting as though he’d made a mistake and expected me to say no.

“I’m not going up. I’m… Yeah,” I said, stepping forward and opening my arms.

He barely hesitated before pressing into me, his head tucked to my chest. He wasn’t small, but he felt fragile like this; if I held him too tightly, he might break. I wrapped my arms around him, steady and sure, giving him time to decide when to let go. His breathing slowed, his grip tightening before he relaxed against me.

“You’re okay, kid,” I murmured.

He stiffened at the word, and I knew I’d messed up. He hated that nickname, hated anything that made him feel small.

“Not a kid,” he reminded me.

I didn’t correct myself because ‘Kid’ meant he was ours—part of this mismatched family we’d built at Redcars. It meant I was here to watch out for him, no matter what.

When he pulled back, his eyes were clearer, less haunted.

“Good hug,” I said as though this were normal.

He rubbed his face as if he could scrub away whatever he felt. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I headed for the stairs again, figuring that was enough for tonight. But I paused at the bottom, glancing back. “Wanna get our Lord of the Rings freak on?”

He blinked in surprise, then tested me. “Which one?”

“ Two Towers ?”

His smile was small but real. “You’re really okay watching it again?”

“Yeah,” I grinned. “Besides, I need another look at Legolas and his perfect elf hair. Seriously, how does he fight an entire war and still look like a shampoo commercial?”

Robbie laughed, that easy sound I didn’t hear often enough. “I’d love to.”

“Bring the snacks,” I said, “I’ll cue up the movie.”

Later, when we were both slouched on the couch, the opening scenes flickering across the screen, I caught Robbie sneaking a glance at me. He wasn’t scared at that moment, and that was enough.

Robbie was already absorbed, his eyes fixed on the screen as though the rest of the world had faded away. When he watched a movie or read a book, he relaxed, lifted out of his thoughts, escaping into someone else’s world for a while. I relished watching that happen, seeing the tension in his shoulders ease as he got lost in the story. But I also liked needling him, poking at that rare moment of quiet until he was smiling in exasperation.

God, I loved his smile.

When he’d finished his popcorn, I settled back in the corner and held out my hands. He climbed onto my lap and settled in my arms.

Perfect.

“I still say Frodo is the hero of this story,” I said, carrying on from another conversation we had on repeat.

“Nope, it’s Sam, and you know it.”

I scoffed. “Nope, Frodo’s the one carrying the ring.”

Robbie chuckled. “Yeah, but he wouldn’t have made it past Rivendell without Sam. He never gives up on him. He’s brave and strong and that makes him the hero.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sam is great, sure, but he’s not the one the story revolves around.”

“Say it. Say Sam is the real hero.” Robbie poked at my side, knocking the empty popcorn bowl so it wobbled on the arm of the sofa. We both grabbed to halt its fall, but I leaned too far. Robbie’s face was inches from mine, breath warm, eyes wide, my weight pinning his arm. His heat and sheer closeness made my pulse stutter, a rush of warmth flooding my chest as every nerve seemed to ignite. I struggled to breathe, my heartbeat so loud I was sure Robbie could hear it, each second stretching as desire tangled with panic.

We stilled. The world outside the moment disappeared. The only thing left was his breath, touch, and gaze holding mine.

“Enzo?” he whispered.

A charge settled in the air between us, and I was close enough to feel his breath against my skin, his entire body tensing beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away.

I waited.

I could have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. It would have been easy, natural, a language I understood—something I could use to show him how much I...

How much I what?

Wanted to kiss him? Needed to kiss him?

I sat back and handed him the bowl, clearing my throat. “Sorry,” I muttered, not quite looking at him. The moment passed, and the Battle of Helm’s Deep raged on the screen. I latched onto it, needing something to fill the space between us. “You ever notice how the orc that Aragorn fights here—right before Legolas shoots him—has a completely different weapon in the close-up? It’s like, axe, then suddenly sword.”

Robbie didn’t respond at first, still gripping the bowl like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then after a pause, his lips quirked. “Yeah.”

“And in the wide shot, he’s on the left. Close-up? Right side.”

“Have we watched this too many times?” He winced as if he expected me to tell him I was bored, didn’t want to watch, or any of a million awful things he imagined I could say—none of which I would say. He couldn’t know how happy I was sitting here with him, watching over him.

Nearly kissing him.

“Never too many,” I said, throwing a piece of popcorn into my mouth. “So, tell me again, how Sam is the real hero?”