Page 28 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Enzo

Robbie didn’t come out of his room the rest of the day although I knocked and told him everything was okay.

I couldn’t work—none of us could. So I focused on making sure Jamie didn’t punch a wall. Sat him down with an ice pack and a beer. Rio stormed around for a while, muttering about Doc and promising to get his own stitches if it meant not seeing the asshole again. I let him vent, didn’t say much. But I kept staring at that closed door. I wanted to knock. Say something. But every time I got close, I stopped. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if I made it worse? Fucking Doc and his chaos and his inability to feel anything like compassion. Fucking Doc. God, I respected the hell out of the man’s skills—I’d seen him pull people back from the edge, watched him do things with a needle and calm hands that should’ve been impossible. He was brilliant. A miracle worker. We owed lives to him, including Robbie’s. But none of that mattered when I thought about what he’d said to Robbie. The horror on Robbie’s face. Doc didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem to notice what he’d done. Just cold, clinical detachment as if Robbie were a file to be closed, a nuisance. He might save lives with his hands, but with his words destroyed things.

And today, he’d taken Robbie’s light and snuffed it out, like it was easy. Like it meant nothing.

I hated him for that.

When everyone left, Jamie still on edge, Rio snarling and snapping, and Logan trying to calm us all, the silence pressed on me. My belly rumbled, and it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten for a long time, and neither had Robbie. I found myself in the kitchen. Opened the fridge without thinking. And there it was—lasagna. Covered in foil, marker scrawl on top in Robbie’s handwriting: Tuesday. 375°F. 30 mins . He’d made it two nights ago, back when things had felt almost… normal.

I turned on the oven and slid it in, standing there long after I needed to, just watching the glow behind the glass. Then I snapped out of it and headed to his room, knocking. “Dinner’s ready,” I said, my voice low. “You wanna come out?”

Silence.

Then, muffled, “I can’t.”

His voice cracked. God. I pressed my forehead to the door. “You can,” I said. “I just… want to sit with you. Even if we don’t talk.”

“I can’t,” he repeated on a sob. “I’m all broken into bits.”

“Robbie—”

“You can’t want someone like me.”

“I do,” I said.

“You heard what he said.”

“Doc’s an asshole,” I said. “He’s got his own shit. He lashes out and makes it about everyone else. You didn’t deserve that.”

Silence again.

“I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” I continued. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. Even when you’re hurting. That’s strength, Robbie. That’s not broken. That’s… fucking beautiful.”

A long pause. Then the lock clicked.

I held still.

The door creaked open a few inches. Robbie’s face appeared, pale and drawn. His eyes were rimmed red. He didn’t look at me right away.

“I’m not good company,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to be.” I offered a small smile. “Just come eat.”

He hesitated. Then opened the door and stepped out. He wore familiar soft flannel pajamas, sleeves tugged down over his hands like armor, and those hospital slippers on his feet. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head—my sweatshirt—and followed me to the kitchen.

We sat together at the kitchen table. He barely touched the food. But he was there.

After a long silence, he said, “I’m sorry. About taking Doc in my room, talking about us. About… everything.”

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I feel…” His brow furrowed. “Disgusting. Like I should be ashamed of what I want. I know he’s wrong. No, I think he’s wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. I was asking his advice, so that I could be the kind of person that someone like you might want to…” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t tell him it was you, he just guessed, I wasn’t…” He groaned again, and I reached out, placing my palm face-up on the table. I didn’t push. Just waited.

Slowly, he slid his hand into mine.

“I meant what I said,” I told him. “You’re not fragile. Not to me.”

“But I am,” he whispered.

“You’ve been hurt. That’s not the same thing.”

His eyes were wide and wet.

Hope flickered in Robbie’s voice, small and scared. “You don’t see me as shattered? As breakable?”

His question hit me like a gut punch.

I felt everything inside me tighten. God, if he only knew. If he only felt what I did every time he flinched, or shut down, or looked at me as though I might vanish if he touched me. The last few days had been impossible, not knowing what to do.

I shook my head, the truth caught in my throat at first, and then spilling out. “If I did, then I’d be able to stay away. Then maybe I could just protect you, watch out for you from a distance, and not want you with every fucking molecule in my body. Maybe it wouldn’t tear me apart to see you hurting, wouldn’t make me want to drag you into my arms and kiss you until you forgot how to be afraid. But I do, Robbie. I do, and it scares the hell out of me.”

He stared at me, stunned, as if he didn’t know what to do with my words.

And then—he didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He stood there, that quiet fire in his eyes, and whispered, “Then kiss me again.”

My breath caught.

God.

My hands trembled as I reached for him, cupping his jaw, brushing my fingers along the curve of his cheek. He was beautiful—so goddamn beautiful and open and trembling—and I didn’t deserve him.

But I leaned in anyway, heart pounding.

The first brush of our lips was so damn soft, then he surged closer, his arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me in. The kiss deepened, heat sparking, and his desperate, breathless whimpers shattered something in me.

He was hard against me, trembling. I could feel him through the thin fabric of his pajamas, and when I slid my hands to the backs of his thighs and lifted him, he gasped and clung to me. His legs wrapped around my waist like it was instinct. I headed up to the apartment, my hands stayed on him, grounding him. Needing him. He clung to me, peppering my skin with tiny kisses and when we reached the room, I gave him another chance to say no.

My forehead pressed to his, our breaths tangled.

“Robbie?” I whispered, terrified of pushing too far.

“Please…” he said. “I need you. I want you.”

His voice was little more than a whisper. My eyes dropped, unflinching, taking in every inch of him—not just his arousal, but the scars I knew were under his sweatshirt and pants, the places where life had torn into him.

He was shaking. So was I.

I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as he palmed me through my pants. The heat in his touch was undeniable, his need so raw it made my chest ache. But although he pleaded, he looked at me like he was waiting for rejection.

Instead, I brushed shaky fingers over his skin. He flinched at first, then melted under my touch.

He backed away from me but curled his fingers in my shirt to pull me with him, tumbling us back onto the bed. I fell as carefully as I could, caging him beneath me.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured. “You’re so perfect. So beautiful. All of you.”

I cupped his face again, swept my thumb across his lips, memorizing the feel of them. “Your eyes…. your lips…”

He shivered when I pulled his T-shirt up, and I kissed the exposed skin of his belly, soft and reverent. He arched under me, and when my fingers traced his scars, he stiffened. I paused, waiting. Giving him the choice.

But when I met his gaze—God. There was fear, yes. But trust, too.

“You’re safe with me, Robbie. Always.”

I trailed my lips down his chest, stopping at each scar and stroking his side as I kissed each one, then tugged at the loose waist of his pajama bottoms.

“Can I?” I asked.

He nodded, breathless.

I went slow and gentle. My hands on his thighs, my breath ghosting over his skin. I kissed the inside of his thigh, watched the way his hands gripped the covers.

“You tell me if you need to stop,” I said again. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he whispered, voice trembling.

I licked a slow line along his length, and his gasp was everything. I worked him with care and patience, worshipping him the way he deserved. When he threaded his fingers into my hair, I didn’t pull away—I let him guide me and hold on.

“Enzo,” he moaned. My name had never sounded like that before—so beautiful.

I hummed in response, the vibration making him shiver. I kept watching him, making sure he was still with me. His eyes were glassy, but so full of something that made my chest ache.

He was close. I could feel it in the way he shivered, the way his hands clenched, the way he choked on the words.

“God,” he whispered. “I never knew…” His voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak. I let my hands tell him everything I couldn’t say—steady and warm against his skin. And when he came, his entire body tensed, arching, mouth open in a wordless cry. I held him through it, letting him ride the wave.

I kissed his thighs and his belly, and he let me move him until I was curled around him, spooning him close.

I held him.

Because he was mine to hold.