Page 48 of Vital Signs

"What about it?"

Instead of answering, he unlocked it with my thumbprint, then held it up between us. The camera app opened with a soft chime.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you something to look at when I'm not around," he said, taking a few photos before handing the phone back.

"You're in my phone now," I said, voice rougher than intended. I saved the photos to a private folder, possessive satisfaction flooding through me. Mine. Nobody else would ever see him like this, flushed and perfect and choosing to give this to me.

"Problem?"

"No." My thumb lingered on the screen, studying every detail of his face. "Just making sure nobody else gets to see what's mine."

He looked satisfied with that answer. He settled back against me, fingers resuming their exploration of my tattoo. This time his touch moved lower, following the dragon's body as it wrapped around my ribs.

From his jacket pocket, Misha pulled out a perfectly rolled joint. The paper was pristine, the roll expertly crafted, nothinglike the sloppy joints I'd rolled behind gas stations when I couldn't afford anything stronger.

"For the nightmares," he said, catching my look. "PTSD management."

He lit it with a silver Zippo, taking a long drag before passing it to me. PTSD management. Right. When Misha used cannabis for trauma, it was therapeutic. When I used fentanyl for the same fucking thing, I was a dirty junkie who'd lost his medical license. Both of us self-medicated with chemicals to make existence bearable, but his drug came with social approval and mine came with felony charges.

The cannabis was smooth, high quality. It settled into my lungs without the burn of cheap weed, spreading warmth through my chest. I passed it back, watching Misha's lips wrap around the filter where mine had just been.

"Your drug is medicine. Mine makes me subhuman," I said, gesturing at the joint.

"The difference is arbitrary.” Misha's hand found mine in the darkness. "You're not a moral failure."

My throat tightened. I turned away, focusing on the joint between my fingers instead of the way Misha was looking at me like I was more than a cautionary tale with track marks.

I brought the joint to my lips, needing something to do with my hands.

Misha caught my wrist.

He guided me forward. "Take a long drag. Don't exhale." When he breathed in the smoke I exhaled. The intimacy was electric.

Misha's eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time, pupils dilating as the cannabis hit his system. When he'd taken every bit of smoke from my lungs, he pulled back just enough to let me breathe, his thumb stroking along my jaw.

"Good?" he asked, voice rough and satisfied.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. The intimacy of it, the trust, the sheer fucking heat of breathing into each other's mouths. It was better than half the sex I'd had in my life.

"Yeah," I managed. "Really good."

When it was his turn, I watched with fascination as his lips wrapped around the joint, taking a slow, unhurried drag. The way he looked at me while holding the smoke in his lungs was pure seduction.

His mouth was soft and warm when it met mine, the smoke passing between us like a shared secret. I tasted cannabis and something purely him that made my head spin. When I breathed in what he offered, our lips brushed just slightly, and I had to fight every instinct not to close the distance completely.

The intimate exchange left us both breathing harder. Misha's pupils were dilated from more than just cannabis. The air crackled between us.

Misha settled back against me, his head on my chest, his hand finding mine in the darkness. Our fingers laced together, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.

I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs. Steady. Real. Proof that this wasn't just a drug dream, that he was actually here, choosing to stay even though every smart person in his life had told him to run.

"Your family's going to be pissed you disappeared," I said, trying to get my racing pulse under control.

"Let them worry." Misha passed the joint back. "They made their position clear at dinner. I'm damaged goods to be managed, not a partner to be trusted."

Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. "They treat you like you might break."