average human’s Reviews > Broken Breath > Status Update

Two fucking seconds.
A buzz starts to hum beneath my skin, so intense it’s pushing away the guilt and nausea that have been there for the last four days. That’s what watching her tear down that mountain like she owns it does. And we’re the lucky ones who get to witness it.
No matter how fucked up things are between us, no matter how hard I’ve tried to shove her out of my head, out of my heart, it doesn’t stop this feeling from curling hot in my chest.
I’m so fucking proud of her.
She drops into the root section next, the one where most riders ease off to play it safe because no one wants to botch it here, not this close to the finish, but not her.
Full risk. Full send. No hesitation.
She barrels through it, and when she shoots out the other side, it’s not only clean, it’s faster.
Dane chuckles under his breath. “Holy shit, Speedbump.”
“Rookie! Rookie! Rookie!” The crowd erupts, the noise swelling so loud it rattles my chest.
Austria lives and breathes mountain biking, and the fans have shown up in droves, packing the sides of the finish stretch tighter than I’ve seen all season. Goose bumps lift along my skin.
The next time comes up green as well, and now she’s four seconds faster than Luc. I glance his way, half-expecting to see cracks in that cocky grin of his, some sign that watching his lead get torn apart is getting under his skin.
But he’s standing, arms thrown high above his head, cheering right along with the crowd, like she’s his goddamn hero. His eyes are lit up with no bitterness or jealousy, just pure, unfiltered joy.
What the fuck?
I blink hard and drag my eyes away, glancing left. Mason is slouched low on his seat per usual, arms crossed, chin tucked, but even the grumpy fucker has got a big-ass smile across his face.
The hell is going on?
At least Raine is predictable, scowling as he glares at the screen, maybe thinking he can stare hard enough to slow her down.
Not going to happen, asshole.
I tear my eyes away from him just as Alaina barrels into the final stretch, with one jump left, the biggest one on the circuit this season so far, maybe the biggest since Snowshoe.
The one that broke her.
I watch her approach that lip, my heart pounding so loud I can feel it in my ears, but she doesn’t even flinch.
She sends it, launching off that lip so fast, the drone camera lags behind for a heartbeat, struggling to keep up with the sheer speed she’s carrying. The feed stutters before it locks back onto her as she hits the ground clean, tucks low, and rockets toward the finish line.
First place, five whole seconds ahead of Luc.
Five.
The announcer’s voice cracks over the roar of the crowd, losing his mind as he shouts over the noise. “This is history, folks! Fastest time ever raced in Leogang!”
I’m still frozen in awe when Dane pulls me into his side, yelling over the crowd cheering, “Did you fucking see that?”
I knew it. Felt it in my bones.
That wasn’t just a win. That was Alaina Crews burning the whole damn mountain down.
She stays low over the bars, folded into herself, like she spent every ounce of strength she had getting to that finish line.
She’s not even celebrating. No fist in the air, no grin behind the helmet, no soaking up the roar of the crowd that’s still chanting some variation of her fake name.
When she reaches us, she swings her leg off the bike with a stiffness that makes my stomach drop.
What the fuck happened?
Dane moves to steady her, one hand on her shoulder as she passes him the bike. Even though I can’t see her eyes behind the goggles, there’s something in the way she sags just slightly under his hand that tells me she must be hurting badly.
“What’s wrong?” Dane crouches to be on eye level with her. “You okay?”
She shakes her head, a small, jerky movement, barely more than a flick beneath the weight of her helmet, then mumbles something I can’t fully hear over the crowd, but I catch the end.
“… watch the bike.”
With that, she pushes through the throng of people gathered at the finish, cutting a line through the noise. Hands reach out to clap her on the shoulder, to offer high fives and congratulations, riders and fans alike trying to pull her into the celebration, but she brushes past them all without slowing.
“Watch it, please,” Dane says, shoving the bike into my hands before he hurries after her.
Yeah, hell no.
I grip the handlebars and push the bike forward, following Dane, who reaches Alaina just as she’s heading toward the women’s bathroom at the gondola station. His hands come down on her shoulders, redirecting her toward the men’s, and she steps inside with him, her body curled in on itself.
I hesitate only a second before setting the bike down against the wall outside and following them in.
Inside, the air is cooler, the noise of the crowd muffled behind the heavy door, and a quick glance tells me we’re alone in here.
Alaina is panting at the sink, helmet already yanked off, one hand braced against the metal edge while the other clutches at her lower abdomen.
“Al,” Dane steps in close, worry bleeding out of him. “What’s happening?”
Alaina doesn’t answer, her whole body bowing under the weight of whatever is tearing through her.
And that’s when I see it, a dark trail of blood seeping down the inside of her blue race pants, staining the fabric along her thighs.
“Dane.” My voice comes out rough as I point toward her legs.
Dane’s head jerks around, following my gaze, and Alaina’s eyes snap down too.
“Fuck,” she hisses, then almost screams the word again. “Fuck!” She turns to Dane. “Get me Piper, please.”
“Who’s Piper?” I ask, already moving toward the door.
Dane barely glances at me. “The pretty blonde physio on Delacroix’s team.”
I push out of the bathroom and run back into the thick of things, my heart pounding as I scan the area. The leftover chants of the fans at the finish are slowly fading out when I spot Delacroix, his grin stretched wide, one arm thrown over Otis’s shoulder. Next to them stands a blonde woman in a pink team shirt, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Looks like a physio, I guess.
I go right to her. “You Piper?”
She glances over, looking annoyed. “Yes, Greer. We’ve been on the same circuit for five years now.”
I blink. “Right. Sorry.”
“What do you need?” she asks, eyebrows knitting as she registers the urgency I carry.
“It’s Al… len Crews. He asked for you.”
Delacroix pipes up at that. “Where is Petit? I wanted to celebrate him. He fucking did it!”
Piper’s gaze flicks between us. “Yeah, where is he?”
“Men’s bathroom. Gondola station.”
Her expression hardens. “Is he okay?”
My gaze flicks to Delacroix before I shake my head, making her grab her backpack tighter and take off at a run. I follow, but so does Delacroix.
We push through the crowd, cutting a path back to the station, and when we shove open the bathroom door, Piper halts mid-step.
Alaina is standing there, her long legs bare except for the padded black underwear all the riders wear, red streaking the insides of her thighs. She’s leaning over the sink, scrubbing at the bloodstains in her racing pants with an angry expression and tears in her eyes.
I’ve never wanted to hold someone together more than I do right now.
But I don’t have that right.
“Is that blood? What the fuck? We need an EMT, not Piper!” Delacroix’s eyes are wide and frantic as he takes in the scene, halfway shoving me aside to get to Alaina, but Dane is quicker. He steps between Delacroix and the doorway, blocking him, holding his ground even though Delacroix looks like he’s about to come unhinged.
Piper slips past all of us, and then Dane pushes me back, too, grouping me with Delacroix. “Out.”
I stumble backward, shaking out of my stupor, and Dane follows, slamming the door behind us.
He plants himself in front of it, arms crossed over his chest and feet spread like he’s the men’s room bouncer. I fall in beside him, mirroring his stance without even thinking, like my body knows we need to hold the line.
Delacroix paces in front of us like a caged animal, his eyes burning, cursing in French under his breath. Eventually, he loses it and tries to shove past us.
Dane holds up a hand, palm flat against his chest, stopping him cold. “Back off.”
He sneers. “You don’t want to find out what happens when you make me mad, mon ami.”
Dane doesn’t even blink. “You’re not needed here. You want to be useful? Go handle the press. Tell them Al’s not feeling well enough for the podium. Grab the trophy for him.”
Delacroix scoffs, shaking his head like we’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand. “I don’t give a fuck what you two think.”
He leans in, his voice pitching just enough to carry through the door. “Petit! Tell me if you need me. If you want me in there, I don’t care how, I will get in there.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck as I watch him, frustration sparking even through the haze of concern.
Bastard.
As far as I know, he’s never cared this much about anyone, but here he is, looking like he’s ready to burn the whole building down just to get to Alaina.
Since when are they this close?
I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
The tension feels like it’s about to snap when Dane yells over his shoulder, “Tell your guard dog to back off, Al!”
A moment later, Alaina’s fake deep voice comes muffled through the door. “Luc, I’m fine. Can you go grab the trophy for me, please? We’ll talk later.”
Delacroix freezes, shoulders tightening. “Promise you’re all right?”
“Promise.”
He stares at the door for several beats like he’s still calculating the best way to kick it down, but then drags a hand down his face instead. “Okay, Petit.” His voice softens. “We’re gonna celebrate you kicking my ass later. Piper?”
“Yeah?” Piper calls back.
“Don’t fuck this up. And call me when he needs me!”
Piper huffs out a laugh. “Will do, you love-sick puppy. Now fuck off.”
Dane and I both swivel at the same time, eyes wide, staring at Delacroix.
Love-sick puppy?
Delacroix’s face does this thing, a half-grin, half-scowl, but what he doesn’t do is deny it. Just turns on his heel and stalks off, muttering in French, probably cursing all of us out as he heads toward the podium.
My brain stutters over the information, trying to piece together the picture that just got dropped in my lap.
Does he know? Does Delacroix know who she is?
No. No fucking way. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
But either way, he’s into her.
What the actual fuck.
I’ve got no right to feel the burn of that, no claim or stake, I know that, but it smolders away, so fucking deep I feel like it’s melting something inside me. Delacroix is out here, loud and unashamed, wearing his heart on his sleeve, ready to throw punches, ready to storm through anyone who stands in his way. He’s showing up for her, no questions, no apologies, and I’m standing outside after watching her light up the world, pretending I’m not desperate to be a part of it, and I haven’t wanted to step into that fire since the second she kissed me.
I’m the coward.
I’m the one too afraid to want her out loud.
Delacroix might not even know who she really is, but it doesn’t fucking matter. He’s fighting for her, and I’m standing on the sidelines, smothering my want with worry, and watching someone else take up the space I gave away.
God, it hurts worse than I ever imagined it could.

77%

I smile and let the warmth that her message stirred up sit in my chest for half a second before I shut off the screen, ignoring the sea of unread messages. I don’t need that noise today.
As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I catch sight of Piper walking past, moving quickly, like she’s got somewhere to be.
“And where are you going?” I call after her, making Otis turn too.
Piper glances back, adjusting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m going to see if the Crews bus needs a driver.”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs. “Dane’s still half-dead from that plague or whatever he’s got, and Al is hurting too. Someone’s gotta make sure they get to France safely, and I just saw Greer getting onto his own team bus.”
Piper tips her chin toward the lot, and I follow her gaze just in time to catch sight of said bus pulling out, gliding down the road, with Greer sitting by a window.
What a fucking asshole.
But hell, I’m no better. I didn’t even think about it, so used to our setup, to the paid drivers and comfy seats, that I didn’t stop to imagine Dane and Petit doing that haul solo. Just the two of them, one still coughing up a lung, the other so stubborn that he’d drive even though he’s hurting worse than any of us.
I shake my head, guilt spiking hot and fast.
“I’m coming with,” I announce, already slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“Hell yeah!” Otis perks up instantly, grinning widely. “I always wanted to drive a bus like that.”
Piper gives us both a look, all raised brows and dry sarcasm. “Oh yeah, they’re gonna love that.”
But I’m already moving, Toulouse burrowing deeper into my hood like he knows we’ve got shit to do. Petit might be too damn proud to ask for help, but I’m not the kind of guy who needs an invitation anyway.
The Crews’ bus is just easing out of the parking lot when we catch up, rolling slow, like even the damn thing knows it’s carrying too much weight in the form of two stubborn idiots who’d rather run themselves into the ground than ask for help.
Petit is behind the wheel, head barely peeking over the dashboard, hands gripping it like he’s steering a ship through a hurricane. And damn if it isn’t the most ridiculous thing, adorable and somehow hot at the same time, watching him, as small as he is, behind the wheel of that monster of a bus.
Piper steps up to the side, waving a hand, motioning for him to open the door. Petit seems confused, but leans forward and flips the latch, the door hissing open as we climb aboard.
“Hey.” He eyes us warily, one hand still on the wheel. “Did you forget something?”
We file in without asking, Otis beaming like a kid on a field trip, me trailing behind, my eyes sweeping the interior until they land on Dane, slumped at the little table toward the back. Still looks like shit.
Piper drops her bag to the floor and turns back toward Petit, her no-nonsense look plastered all over her face. “No, I just figured you guys might not be up for driving all that way yourselves.”
She hooks a thumb at me and Otis. “These two idiots tagged along, but hey, the bus is big enough.”
Petit’s eyes narrow slightly, hands tightening on the wheel. “That’s… very thoughtful,” he says carefully. “But we’ll manage.”
Piper shakes her head, crossing her arms. “You probably would manage, but you don’t have to. So…” She turns to us, raising her brows. “Who’s taking the first shift?”
Otis’s hand shoots up like he really is in kindergarten. “Me!”
I grin, leaning back against the seat, crossing my feet at the ankles. “Yeah, I’ll drive when we hit France. Get you all home in one piece.”
Petit opens his mouth, ready to argue again, that little frown tightening between his brows, but there’s something softer there too. Something tired.
I catch it. Piper catches it too.
She raises a finger, cutting him off before he even gets going. “Uh-uh. Doctor’s orders.”
Petit glares, his chin lifting. “You said you weren’t a real doctor.”
“And still, you use me like one.”
He opens his mouth again, closes it with a sigh, and scrubs a hand down his face. “Fine.”
“Come on.” I flash him a grin. “This is gonna be fun.”
Petit slides out of the driver’s seat, slow and stiff, and Otis practically launches into it, grinning wide as he adjusts the mirrors like he’s about to take a joyride through the Alps.
Piper turns toward the back, tossing over her shoulder, “I’m gonna check on Dane.”
That makes Petit Crews smirk. “Get it, girl.”
Piper whirls around with a scowl sharp enough to cut glass, which only makes him smile wider.
I’m grinning, too, as I hook an arm around Petit’s waist and pull him into my chest without giving him a chance to protest.
“Hey, there,” I murmur softly, dipping my head, pressing my nose into his hair like I have every right to be there.
Lavender and ointment. He smells like me.
The scent is soaked into his skin, into the fabric of his hoodie, and it clings to him in a way that makes something tighten low in my gut. It tugs at that possessive streak I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist, curling it tighter in my chest until I’m not sure where he ends and I begin.
And then he melts into the hug, not just leans. Sinks.
His shoulders drop, like he’s been holding himself up for days and just now figured out he doesn’t have to. It feels like I’m the only thing keeping him from coming apart completely, and it absolutely kills me.
Because I know that feeling. The ache of carrying too much, for too long, with no one to hand it off to.
It also confirms what I already suspected. He needs me.
He’s hurting, done with the world, and if no one else is going to make it better, I will.
My heart stutters a little when I pull back and press the trophy into his hands.
“For you, mon champion,” I whisper, but he hesitates, looking at it like it’s too heavy for his hands. “You made that mountain your bitch. Fastest time in Leogang history, remember? I’m so fucking proud of you.”
A little smile tugs at his lips when his fingers finally curl around the base of the trophy, like he’s touching something sacred. “Thank you for getting it.”
I lean in, my shoulder brushing his. “You didn’t just win, you conquered.” And I’m not letting him forget it.
He stares at it for a beat longer, then sets it on the floor behind the passenger seat, carefully, almost reverently, but like he can’t hold it any longer. When he straightens, the bus lurches forward with a sharp jolt that nearly throws both of us to the floor.
“Merde, Otis!” I bark, laughing even as my heart skips a beat.
Up front, Otis glances back, wide-eyed. “Sorry! Brakes are way more sensitive than I thought. Gotta get a feel for them.”
I guide Petit over to the bench seat, technically the passenger seat, but it’s wide enough for two if you don’t mind getting close. I drop down first, stretch out, arms open, making it clear where I expect him.
He sits beside me, but only just, edging toward the far side.
I narrow my eyes.
Don’t like that at all.
“Hell yeah!” Otis whoops from the front as we make it onto the road. “This is so much fun. Why do we let other people drive us all the time?”
Petit snorts. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s nice to rest after hauling your body down a mountain?”
I nudge him gently with my elbow. “Then come rest.”
His eyes flick sideways, glancing at Otis like he’s checking for judgment.
Ah.
“What?” I laugh. “You worried about him? Otis doesn’t care.”
“True.” Otis shrugs. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want back there. I’m an ally.”
Petit’s gaze drifts farther back to Piper, who has settled into the seat next to Dane, leaning close, murmuring low. She laughs at something Dane says, her hand brushing his arm while he’s grinning.
“And those two?” I nod toward them, smirking. “Way too occupied to care what we’re doing.”
Petit hesitates for a breath, maybe two. Then he gives in, leaning against me, but it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
I wrap my arm tighter around his waist and tug him in, guiding him until his legs stretch across my lap, fitting like they were always meant to be there. He lets out this tiny, involuntary gasp, and I feel it everywhere.
His breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. His head dips, his cheek brushing my shoulder, and I slide my hand up to stroke him in slow circles along his thigh, my thumb tracing gentle patterns while my other hand curls against the curve of his shoulder.
He shivers against me, and fuck, I could stay right here forever.
But even with Petit leaning into me like this, even with his head resting lightly against my shoulder, eyes closed, there’s tension.
His body hums with it.
The lines around his eyes are tight, his lips pressed flat like he’s holding something in and is trying too hard to be still.
I ease my fingers into his hair, push the strands back from his forehead, and whisper against the crown of his head, “Qu’est-ce qui fait mal, mon Petit? What hurts?”
He exhales this small, hollow sound, but his eyes stay closed. “What doesn’t?”
I have no idea how to fix this, so I do the only thing I know and let my hand drift lower, stroking down the curve of his shin over his sweatpants, then up again, tracing slow, steady circles along his back. Just grounding him, giving him something to lean into me, and he does.
His weight softens, finally sinking into me fully.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in again.
“What can I do to make it better?” I murmur against his hair.
He shifts just slightly, one hand curling lazily against my chest while the other spreads wide, pressing flat over my stomach.
“You already did,” he whispers.
That does something dangerous to me, setting off a whole swarm of butterflies in my chest, flapping wild and hard because, fuck, he really wants me here. He actually said it.
I breathe deeply, trying to settle it, but I can feel the grin pulling at the edges of my mouth. Still, there’s a weight I can’t ignore, pressing at the back of my mind.

“What happened yesterday? You were bleeding.”
Petit tenses again, curling in on himself in that instinct to hide.
“I got hurt racing,” he answers, clipped.
“How?”
“It’s embarrassing.” He grips my chest a little tighter, the words appearing to cost him something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I ease my hand back into his hair, letting my fingers slide slowly through the strands, trying to get him back to that relaxed state.
“Nothing would be embarrassing to me. Believe me. I don’t even know how to feel embarrassed.” I let that hang there because it’s true. I don’t have the wiring for shame. “You could talk to me about anything, lay out your worst thoughts, your weirdest shit, and I’d probably ask for more details. Nothing rattles me. Nothing makes me flinch.”
The conflict is clear in his eyes. He wants to trust me. I can see it, feel it in every breath he takes against my chest, but he’s still afraid. Probably bracing for the moment I pull away. So I don’t. Instead, I press another kiss to his temple.
“You don’t have to tell me the details, just tell me you’ll be okay, please.”
His head dips, resting against me again in a slow, exhausted nod, his hand flattening more firmly over my stomach, and fuck, my cock stirs at the touch.
I grit my teeth through it. Not the right fucking moment, ami.
“Yeah,” he answers. “In a day or three.”
“Okay,” I murmur, my fingers trailing lazily down the curve of his spine. “We’ve got at least eight hours to kill, how about you tell me something about yourself?”
He shifts, eyes flicking toward Otis up front, who’s still driving like he’s got nowhere to be and all day to get there. His grin is plastered wide, nodding along to the music playing low through the speakers.
I jerk my chin at him. “Fisher, crank it up a little, yeah?”
Otis flashes a thumbs-up, turns the dial, and the bus fills with sound, some old-school French pop song, upbeat and ridiculous, but it makes Petit soften more into me, the edge of his mouth tugging toward a smile.
He lets out a soft huff of breath. “We already had me spilling my guts. How about you tell me something?”
“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
“You said you weren’t well either,” he reminds me, his voice softer now. “I didn’t forget that. I just wasn’t… in the state of mind to ask. I’m sorry. You can tell me now.”
“You don’t seem in the state of mind now either,” I tease, keeping my voice light.
He tucks his head under my jaw. “Oh, right now?” he murmurs. “I’m perfectly fine.”
That flips something inside me. Hard.
“Well, I probably should save that kind of story for a friend.” Pulling back just enough to catch his eye, I smirk at him. “And like you told me…” I let my knuckles glide gently along his faintly flushed cheek and watch the way his lashes flutter at the touch. “You’re not my friend.”
“Right.” Petit hums, averting his gaze down to his hand as his fingers drift lower, skimming over the waistband of my sweats. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.
Heat pools low in my stomach, and I hold my breath, my pulse kicking. My hand flies to his wrist, catching hold before that innocent little touch turns me into a goddamn mess right here in kicking distance of Otis.
“Don’t tempt me, Petit,” I murmur, linking our fingers as my lips brush the shell of his ear. “I’m already hanging by a thread.”
His lashes lift, and when those big brown eyes meet mine, there’s something there that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like maybe none of this is accidental at all.
“I’m pretty sure you’re just talk,” he whispers back.
Mon Dieu.
I let go of his hand, but only to slide mine up, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw until I catch his chin between my thumb and forefinger, so I can tilt his face toward me and ease him into my orbit. My thumb traces the curve of his bottom lip slowly, feeling the soft give of it beneath my touch.
His breath stutters, lips parting just enough to let me feel it ghost against my skin. My eyes flick between his mouth and those wide, searching eyes, soaking in every flicker of hesitation, every crackle of want.
I lean in, closer still, until there’s nothing but heat between us. The faint brush of his breath mixes with mine, the space tightening until it feels like one wrong move will tip us over the edge.
“Give me permission,” I whisper, lips grazing his but never quite touching. “Let me show you just how much I’m not talk.”
I hold there, suspended in the space between us, the air charged and vibrating. The tension is so tight it could snap with a breath, and mon Dieu, I want it to. I want him to close the gap, to say yes, to let me.
But then he hiccups, breaking the spell just enough to pull a grin from me.
I chuckle and lean back, but only to gather him in again, and wrap him up, tucking his head to my chest like I’m afraid he might float away if I don’t hold him close enough.
His ear is right over my heart, and I know he can hear it pounding hard and fast like I just crashed out at full speed.
I’m so hard it hurts, every nerve thrumming with need. Just holding him, feeling his breath on my neck, his weight in my lap is enough to undo me.
I close my eyes, dragging in a breath that’s supposed to calm me.
Think about something else, Luc. Anything else.
Dirt trails. Bad espresso. Payne’s perfect little scowl. Wait! Fuck, not that.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to my maman,” I murmur, the thought slipping out before I even think twice about it.
That tension snaps back in an instant.
Petit goes rigid, his body stiffening like I just threatened to tattoo my name across his chest.
“Luc,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to glare up at me, his brows furrowed hard. “I’m not your… boyfriend.”
I smirk, not even fazed, squeezing him close. “Non, but you’re mon Petit.” I feel him huff and know he wants to argue, but I steamroll right through it. “And it’s France, Les Gets. My home mountain. I grew up there. I can’t wait to show you everything. The food’s amazing, the people are sweet, oh, and my birthday’s Friday.” I grin, nuzzling into his hair again. “We’re gonna celebrate, and you’ll love it. We still have to celebrate your win, so we can do both at the same time.”
He tilts his head back, eyeing me. “This Friday? August second?”
“Oui.”
His lips twitch, one brow lifting. “How old are you turning?”
I lean back just enough to flash him my full grin. “Twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Twentyf…” He stops, winces, then mutters, “Twenty.”
“So young.” I grin, nipping at his earlobe just to feel that shiver run through him. Then I grin even wider. “Can I legally adopt you?”
He lets out a breathy laugh, smacking my face away with his palm, but it only makes me grin harder.
I love it when he does that.
“You can sleep,” I murmur, brushing my thumb in slow circles along his shoulder. “I’ve got you. Close your eyes, and before you know it, we’ll be in France.” I pause, not satisfied with the strain of his muscles against me, so I keep going, gentler now. “Or…” I offer, letting my hand trail lower, smoothing over the curve of his back. “If you’d rather stretch out in the back, I’ll take a turn driving and let you get some proper rest.”
“Stay,” he whispers brokenly, so soft it’s barely a whisper.
Merde.
I breathe deep, clenching my jaw against the way my cock stirs hard in response again. Dammit. That sound shouldn’t make me wild with the need to protect him, hold him, have him.
But it does.
God help me, it does.
“I’ll stay,” I say hoarsely. “I’ll hold you all the way there.”
The sound he makes then, a soft, contented hum, barely a breath, is pure fucking devastation. It slides straight down my spine and settles low in my gut, pouring gasoline on the fire already burning there.
And all I can think is, what would he sound like then?
Naked beneath me, flushed and writhing, my name catching on his lips between gasps. I want to hear every sound, every sharp inhale, every moan, every desperate little noise he makes when I touch him just right, when I kiss him slow and deep, when I push him to the edge and guide him back, trembling.
I want to learn, memorize, and worship him.
But instead, I just hold him tighter, my arms wrapped around something far more fragile than he pretends to be, because he asked me to, and I’d burn the whole world down just to be the one he asks again.
My thoughts are still tangled up in all the things I want to do to him when Petit’s breath evens out, his body sagging heavier into mine, sleep finally pulling him under.
My lower back protests the position and the weight on me, but I wouldn’t move for anything right now.
Toulouse stirs and crawls out from my hood. He stretches, then pads down to curl up in Petit’s lap. He yawns, tiny teeth flashing, and curls tighter into a ball, tail flicking once before he dozes off again.
“Like father, like son,” I murmur under my breath.
Neither of us is good at giving space, and neither of us knows how to back off when someone needs us.
Petit claims Toulouse is gross. He says we’re not friends.
But that’s the thing about my son and me, we’ll keep showing up, inching closer, and refusing to back off.
Until Petit figures out what we already know.
That he wants us right here.
And we’re exactly what he needs.