Page 25 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

W e walked home in silence.

The kind of silence that didn’t need words.

Bear met us at the door, tail wagging slow. He nudged Faron’s hand, then flopped on the couch like, Good. You’re both where you belong.

I didn’t turn on the lights.

Faron stood in the kitchen doorway, watching as I pulled out the first aid kit like it was a sacred ritual.

“Sit.”

He did.

I took his hand. Angry knuckles. Torn skin. My stupid heart throbbed.

“Stubborn idiot,” I muttered.

“Meanest doctor in LA,” he replied, smile soft now.

I cleaned his wounds. He watched my face like it was a map to someplace worth surviving for.

“You know this won’t stop.”

“I know.”

“You should run.”

He lifted my chin. “Not a chance.”

I pressed his bandaged hand to my cheek.

“You’re gonna die for me one day.”

“Better me than you.”

“Asshole.”

“Doc.”

And then he kissed me.

Not hunger. Not desperation.

This one was slow. Gentle. Final in a way that wasn’t an ending — more like the breath you take before the fall.

“Come to bed,” he whispered.

“For sleep?” I teased, voice shaking.

He smiled. “Mostly.”

Outside, the city sharpened its claws.

Inside, I chose him anyway.