Page 29 of Venus
He doesn’t answer the door right away. I knew he wouldn’t. He never does anymore.
I stand at his door, fingers tightening around the straps of my bag, forehead nearly pressed to the wood. The hallway is quiet, too quiet for a guy who used to blast classic rock from the kitchen while making me boxed mac and cheese in a pot way too big for the amount of food we need.
“Carter?” I call gently.
Nothing for a second.
Then the lock turns.
He opens the door, eyes bloodshot, face hollow. He looks like a shadow of the man I know—baggy sweats, a blanket falling off one leg, shirt rumpled like he hasn’t bothered to change in days, or maybe even a full week. He doesn’t speak. Just steps aside.
I try my best not to let my eyes linger too long on the burns. All things considered, he still looks like the Carter I fell in love with, but I can’t imagine the psychological torture he’s going through, looking in the mirror and seeing a permanent reminder of the worst day of his life.
He’s scheduled for his official skin graft consultation after the funeral.
Carter refused to sit in the hospital any longer, leaving against medical advice, and forcing the doctors to plead with him to be careful. I promised I’d look after him, take care of his wounds, but burns aren’t my specialty.
He doesn’t let me in anymore, and the flames left just as much damage on his heart than his skin. I don’t know how to help him.
“I brought soup,” I say quietly, holding up the container like it was something that could bring him comfort. “And gauze. You haven’t changed the dressing, have you?”
Still nothing.
I set the container down on the counter. His apartment smells like smoke and leftover antiseptic, and I hate how normal that feels now.
“You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself,” I say.
“I’m trying.” He rubs his face, hissing when he touches the sensitive patches on his cheeks. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”
I nod, already reaching into my bag. “Lift your shirt.”
He obeys, slow and stiff. I peel back the old dressing.
The wound looks angry. Red. Swollen. Healing slowly.
His skin is hot under my fingers. I clean it gently, with careful hands, but I don’t talk.
He doesn’t need words right now. He needs care.
Small, quiet, deliberate support from someone that isn’t from his fire station, mourning the same loss.
“I can’t stop thinking about that day,” he says suddenly, voice frayed.
I move to lean around him and meet his eyes, waiting for him to continue.
“One minute we were sharing candy. Then there was fire. Then he was gone.” His throat moved like it hurt to speak. “I was holding his hand. It was all I could do, because I wasn’t strong enough to get him out. I should have called the mayday sooner. I should have-”
“Carter,” I say, quiet but firm, fingers stalling on his skin. I reach up, touched his jaw on a patch of skin that isn’t burned and rub my finger back and forth before forcing him to look at me. “You did more than anyone else would have. And he knew that. We all do.”
He breaks.
He folds into my arms like he can’t be bothered to support his own weight anymore—like the world is too heavy on his shoulders.
He tightly clutches my arms as I carefully wrap them around him, trying not to cause him pain.
He sobs into the air, and I just hold him as he lets out raw, broken gasps of grief.
Minutes pass before he grows quiet. Then, he sits up, turns, and kisses me.
It comes out of nowhere. It’s not gentle or romantic.
It’s…wrecked. Desperate. Not in a lustful way, but like he’s searching for a way to feel an ything other than this pain he’s working through.
I let him do what he wants. He squeezes my breast under my hoodie, and kisses me again, harder now.
But then he breaks down again, because whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find.
He collapses into me again, wrapping his arms around me as tight as his injuries will let him.
I stroke his hair and let him cry it out again, kissing the crown of his head and rocking him softly from side to side.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I know I ran before, but I promise I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry it took nearly losing you to admit that, but whatever journey you have ahead of you, I’ll be right by your side.”
He sniffles into my chest, then whispers, “Just stay with me.”
I nod against the top of his head. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
And I do.