Page 27 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Lean On Me

Anthony

The darkness is suffocating, pressing in on me like the weight of a thousand bricks.

I crouch inside the wardrobe, the scent of incense and aged wood thick in my nose, mingling with the faint tang of sweat on my skin.

My breath comes in shallow gasps, muffled by my hand over my mouth.

I try to stay silent, but my heart pounds like a drum, each beat echoing louder in the oppressive stillness.

“Little Tony…” The voice slithers through the air, singsong and sickly sweet. “Where are you, Little Tony?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear. The footsteps outside the wardrobe grow heavier, louder, deliberate, each step a cruel reminder that escape is impossible.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the voice taunts, closer now.

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as I press myself against the back of the wardrobe. I know what’s coming. I know there’s no hiding. My hands tremble as the footsteps come to an abrupt stop.

Silence.

Then, with a violent jolt, the wardrobe doors fly open. The light blinds me as the silhouette looms large, his face twisted into a mockery of kindness.

“There you are,” he says, reaching for me. The others are behind him. “It’s not polite to hide from us.”

I scream, raw and desperate, the sound tearing through my throat—

“Anthony!” A different voice cuts through the haze, pulling me back. My eyes fly open, and I’m met with Chance’s face hovering inches from mine. His hands cradle my cheeks, his eyes wide with concern. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream. You’re safe now, Beautiful.”

I gasp for air, my chest heaving as the room around me comes into focus. The living room. The soft glow of the TV. Chance, kneeling in front of me, his hands steady and grounding.

“You’re safe,” he repeats, his voice low and soothing.

I nod, unable to form words. My hands are shaking, and my skin is clammy, but his presence is an anchor in the storm. Slowly, I begin to breathe again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, his tone gentle.

I shake my head. The thought of explaining it all right now is too much.

“Okay,” he says, pulling his hands away but not moving far. “How about something strong to drink? I’ve got whiskey. We can just hang out and watch a movie until you’re ready to sleep again.”

I vigorously shake my head no.

Chance tilts his head.

I force a smile and clarify, “I mean yes, sorry. Just not whiskey.”

“Tequila work?” he asks.

I nod, and Chance disappears into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of tequila. He hands one to me and sits beside me, close enough to be comforting but not overbearing. I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me, chasing away the lingering chill of the nightmare.

He grabs the remote and flips through the channels. “Hey, look,” he says, stopping on a movie. “ Heathers is on. I love this movie.”

I glance at the screen and raise an eyebrow. “Really? The ‘What’s your damage?’ movie? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Chance throws his head back and laughs, the sound loud and genuine. It’s so unexpected that I can’t help but let out a small chuckle of my own.

“I love when you come out of nowhere with your twisted sense of humor, Pacini,” he says, nudging me lightly with his elbow.

I let the comment hang in the air, the warmth of his laughter easing some of the tension in my chest.

“For real, though,” Chance says, his tone softening. “If you ever want to talk about your damage, I’m here.”

His words land harder than I expect, and I glance at him, my emotions raw. I manage a weak smile, my eyes wet. He holds my gaze for a moment before looking away, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Let’s watch this movie and get you back to sleep,” he says, breaking the moment.

The movie plays in the background as the tequila works its magic.

My eyelids grow heavy, the tension in my body fading as exhaustion takes over.

Before I know it, I’m drifting off, leaning toward the sound of Chance’s steady breathing beside me.

I barely register Chance slipping the glass out of my hand before darkness takes me.

The first thing I notice when I stir awake is the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek.

My head is resting on Chance's bare chest, his arm draped loosely around me. His soft, even breaths brush against my hair, his chin resting lightly on the top of my head. For a couple minutes, I lie still, my heart pounding in my ears. It’s warm, comfortable and safe.

But the awareness of where I am, of who I’m with, rushes in, and I carefully shift out of his hold.

Chance murmurs something in his sleep but doesn’t wake.

I stand at the edge of the couch for a moment, looking down at him, his features relaxed and peaceful.

He looks so different like this, so unguarded, and it makes something in my chest yearn.

I need to do something. Something to steady myself.

I pad softly into the kitchen, careful not to disturb him, and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. Cooking always grounds me. And after last night, after everything he’s done for me, it’s the least I can do.

I quietly take Little G out to do his business, then get started on breakfast.

About thirty minutes later, the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon fills the apartment. I flip a batch of roasted garlic and onion skillet potatoes before pouring some eggs into a pan. I sprinkle in some fresh herbs, letting the familiar movements settle my nerves.

The nightmare still lingers at the edges of my mind, the echoes of that voice clawing at my thoughts, but focusing on the food keeps them at bay.

The sound of shuffling feet makes me glance over my shoulder. Chance walks into the kitchen, his hair messy from sleep, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other runs down over his abs. I turn back to the stove before my thoughts wander too far.

“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual as I sprinkle goat cheese onto the eggs.

“Morning, Beautiful,” he replies, his voice gravelly and low, making my stomach flip.

He inhales deeply, the scent of food waking him up. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast,” I say, shrugging. “Figured I owed you one after waking you up in the middle of the night.”

He crosses the kitchen, grabs a mug from the cabinet, and pours himself some coffee. He leans against the counter, watching me. “You owe me nothing, Ant. But I’m not about to complain.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the stove, rolling the herb and goat cheese omelet and plating the bacon. “Go sit. I’m almost done.”

“Yes, Chef,” he teases, grinning as he takes his coffee to the table.

As I finish plating breakfast, my phone buzzes on the counter.

Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I glance down to see an email alert.

Opening the app, my eyes scan the message from Student Housing.

My shoulders sag as I huff out a frustrated breath and toss the phone back onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.

Chance looks up from his coffee, his brows furrowing in concern. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s an email from the university about the housing situation,” I explain, rubbing the back of my neck. “They still don’t have any openings, and the repairs are going to take weeks. I just... I don’t know how much longer this is going to drag on.”

Chance leans back in his chair, a soft smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, no need to get worked up about it, Ant. I’m in no rush for you to go.

Plus, I already told my landlord you might be here for a while, and they were totally cool about it.

Besides...” He smirks, his voice dropping into the teasing tone that always dances its way under my skin and into my chest. “I wouldn’t want to lose my personal chef now, would I? ”

I breathe out a quiet sigh of relief and nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage.

Chance waves it off, his grin as easy as ever. “Don’t mention it, really.”

When I bring over the plates, Chance looks up at me, his blue eyes bright and grateful, as I set a heaping plate of food in front of him.

“Damn,” he says, taking in the spread. “Seriously, this could be a problem. You know I can’t go back to eating shredded bales of hay cereal after this, right?”

I laugh, sitting across from him. “Just eat.”

He takes a bite of the omelet first, his eyes half closing as he chews. “Okay, seriously, you spoil me.”

The clink of forks on plates fills the room as we settle into a comfortable rhythm, the warmth of a good breakfast and good company softening the edges of the morning. Chance leans back in his chair, cradling his coffee mug, a satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“This was next-level, Pacini. I feel like a king over here,” he says, gesturing to his cleared plate.

I just give him a laugh, shaking my head. “If you think my lasagna and omelets are good, you should taste my Thanksgiving spread.”

Instead of lighting up like I thought they would, his eyes shift down toward the floor. “Thanksgiving, huh? Are you traveling for football? I figured the team might have a game or something.”

I shake my head, setting my fork down. “No game this year, thank fuck. We get the whole week off. Our last game of the season is the following week. No playoffs for us this year. What about you? Are you going back to Boston?”

Chance’s expression remains unchanged, the light in his eyes unusually dim. He takes a sip of his coffee, stalling for a moment before answering. “Nah, that’s not really a possibility,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s… complicated.”

I don’t push for more, but I can feel the weight behind his words, the subtle sadness he tries to hide. It stirs something in me, a strange mix of protectiveness and the need to do something to make it better. Like he would for me.

“No playoffs? This was your last season. Aren’t you upset?” Chance asks, changing the subject.

“Nah,” I reply, shrugging. “I’ve enjoyed my football experience, but I’m ready for what’s next. Butters would’ve liked to go out on top, but honestly, he’s already a sure thing for the draft. I think he wanted it for me more than anything.”

“Makes sense,” he says, nodding.

“Hey,” I say, leaning forward a little. “Why don’t we do a Friendsgiving? Jen is staying in town. She doesn’t have family here and I don’t think Butters is going home either. Maybe you can ask Lexi. We could do it here, if you’re okay with that. I’ll cook everything.”

Chance’s head tilts, and for a second, he just stares at me, like he’s not sure if I’m serious. Then, a huge smile spreads across his face, transforming his whole demeanor. “Yeah? You really want to do that?”

“Of course,” I say, my tone firm. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the take-out dinner you were probably planning.”

He laughs, a little sheepishly. “Guilty. I figured I’d grab something from the diner down the street that stays open and call it a day.”

The thought of him sitting alone on Thanksgiving, eating take-out, makes my stomach turn. “Absolutely not,” I say emphatically. “We’re doing this right. Turkey, stuffing, everything. It will be amazing.”

Chance’s grin widens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That sounds perfect, Ant. Really. Thanks for thinking of it.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, but inside, I’m already making mental notes about recipes and timing. “It’ll be fun. I’ll make sure it’s the best Thanksgiving you’ve ever had.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, still smiling, and briefly, the pain I saw in his eyes earlier seems to ease. It suddenly strikes me that it feels good to be the reason for that.

“Alright,” Chance says, standing and grabbing our empty plates. “Let’s make it happen. But if you’re cooking, I’m at least doing the dishes. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, watching him move to the sink.

As I start planning in my head, one thought solidifies above all others: I’m going to make this Friendsgiving unforgettable.

Chance deserves that much from me.

Maybe more.