“Why do you care?” Damiano said, finally asking the question that had been on his mind for the past week since his whipping—and had become only more persistent since their conversation last night. I don’t want you dead. I don’t want to be saved if that means you’re dead. The words still kept ringing in his ears, infuriatingly distracting. The hands stopped stroking him. Damiano frowned in displeasure. “I know this is weird,” the other man said, clearing his throat a little. “I know it probably isn’t real—just the circumstances, forced proximity, my phobia, and the stress—but… I care for you.
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