His hand came up toward my face, the scarred knuckles trembling, and he stopped with his fingers an inch from my jaw ’cause he couldn’t cross the gap.
I could see it in his eyes, the war between the part of him stepping forward and the part screaming at him to step back, his hand hanging in the air between us, shaking, and the room was so quiet I could hear both our heartbeats.
He couldn’t do it, his fingers stayed an inch from my skin, and the inch might as well have been a continent ’cause his father’s ghost was standing between us, filling the space his body wouldn’t cross, and I watched him fight himself and lose and I should’ve let him pull back, should’ve given him the distance he needed to feel safe.
I reached up and pressed his hand flat against my jaw instead.
The sound he made when his palm touched my skin wasn’t a word, it was a low broken noise from the back of his throat, animal and wrecked.
His fingers curled against my cheekbone, his eyes went half-shut, his whole body shuddered, a full tremor I felt through his palm.
The scent that came off him hit me so hard my knees went soft, I swayed forward and his other hand caught my hip to steady me and that was two points of contact now, his palm on my jaw and his fingers digging into my hip, and my body answered before my brain could intervene, the sweet smell flooding out of me so thick the air went heavy.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his fingers tightening on my hip, not pulling me closer, holding me still, holding both of us still ’cause I could feel his arm shaking with the effort of not dragging me in.
“Nico, I can’t…
you need to understand, if I—” “I know.” “You don’t.
You don’t know what this does to me, what your scent—” His thumb moved across my cheekbone, one slow stroke, his breathing ragged, chest heaving.
“I haven’t touched anyone in 4 years.
4 years, Nico.
And you’re standing here smelling this way and I’m—” “Wait, 4 years?” “Since I saw what I— what I could become, what I almost did.” His voice dropped to something barely there.
“I stopped everything.
I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t.” His hand was still on my jaw, warm, rough and trembling, my pulse hammering under his fingers, and I could feel the slick starting between my legs, warm and slow, my body’s response to his touch.
I pressed my cheek into his palm ’cause I couldn’t stop myself, ’cause his hand on my face felt like the first honest thing that had happened to me since I’d landed in this country, and the noise he made when I leaned into his touch was wrecked and desperate and I wanted to hear it again, which was terrifying and also kinda…
right?
I didn’t want to examine that too hard.
“You said— you said you’d hurt me,” I said, quiet.
“I said I wouldn’t be able to stop.” “That’s not the same thing.” “It is for me.” “No it’s not, and I think you know that.” I put my hand over his on my jaw, pressed his fingers tighter against my skin.
“Dr.
Vos said your dad didn’t want to stop.
She said there’s a difference.
You’ve spent 3 days trying to protect me from yourself, Kessler; that’s not what a man who doesn’t want to stop looks like.” His eyes went glassy, bright, I watched it happen, the grey going wet, and his jaw clenched under my fingers, his hand was still burning through the fabric of my joggers at my hip.
I could feel his pulse through his palm, fast and heavy, matching mine beat for beat, my body locking onto his frequency, and it scared me, and it also— I don’t know, comforted me, somehow, both things at once.
I didn’t know what to do with both of those feelings, honestly, living in the same breath.
“Nico.” His voice was barely there.
“If I— if I kiss you right now, I won’t stop at just…
kissing you.” “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.” “You don’t know what you’re—” “I’m 22, not 12.
I know what I’m saying, I just…
I also know I’m scared and you’re scared and this whole thing is insane, but you’re standing here with your hand on my face and I don’t want you to take it off.
So…” His thumb traced my jaw, slow, his breath shaking, his eyes dropping to my mouth, and I could feel him leaning in, a fraction, his weight shifting forward, his scent thickening in the narrow space between our faces, cedar and warmth and that sharp electric thing that made my blood run south and my chest go tight, and his mouth was close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips.
The door opened, and Dr.
Vos walked in with her phone in her hand, her eyes moving from his palm on my jaw to his grip on my hip to the inch between our mouths.
She didn’t speak for a beat, just took it in.
“Step back, Damjan,” she said.
Quiet but firm.
His hand left my face, left my hip, and the absence of his touch was so sharp I flinched, my body lurching toward him before I caught myself and locked my knees.
The scent in the room was thick enough to chew, mine and his braided together in the small space, sweet and cedar.
“Sit down, both of you.” We sat on opposite sides of the room again; his hands on his knees, mine gripping the armrests, the fluorescent light buzzing above us, and I wanted to put my fist through something.
“I spoke with Henrik,” she said.
“He— he knows about Nico’s presentation, and he’s arranging a safe room at De Wolfshoeve for the heat.
Isolated wing, soundproofed, stocked, it’s been used before.” “And I won’t be in the building when it happens,” Kessler said, flat.
“No, you won’t.” She looked at me.
“I’m prescribing a stronger suppressant.
It won’t stop the heat, but it should blunt the peak enough that you can manage it alone.” She picked up her thermometer.
“Nico, I need to check your temperature.” She pressed a device to my forehead, not really a thermometer, something else, a scanner I hadn’t seen before, then her mouth tightened.
“What?” I said.
“Your core temperature’s— it’s spiking, it was stable when you walked in.
The physical contact accelerated the bonding response, which is feeding the presentation.” She set the thermometer down and looked between us, and I could see her recalculating, adjusting, the doctor’s brain running numbers behind her steady eyes.
“I told you 72 hours this morning, but I’m revising that estimate.” “To what?” “You need to be in the safe room by tonight.
4 o’clock at the latest, pack a bag, bring water, bring food you can eat cold.” She paused.
“And Nico?
Once the heat starts, you won’t be able to leave that room for up to 3 days.
You need to understand that.” “3 days?” “Possibly longer.” I looked at Kessler across the room, his face drained white, his knuckles bloodless on his knees, and my skin was already burning hotter, the warmth spreading from my chest down through my stomach and settling between my legs.
He could smell it; I could see his nostrils flaring from 8 feet away, his jaw locking down so hard the tendons in his neck stood out, his whole body rigid with the effort of staying on his side of the room.
Dr.
Vos kept talking after that, suppressant dosages, hydration schedules and what to expect hour by hour, her voice steady and clinical, but I wasn’t hearing her anymore.
The warmth had crossed over into heat and the heat was climbing, my thighs were pressing together under the desk and the slick was starting again, warm and slow, soaking into the fabric of yesterday’s joggers, and Kessler’s nostril flared one more time, his eyes going wide, and we both knew the 72 hours had been a lie my body was never gonna honour.