The moment Rashid’s mouth finds mine, something erupts between us. Everything we barely held back comes pouring out at once. My arms lock around his neck, crashing me against him like I can’t stand another inch of space. We kiss like we’re starving – urgent, heated, breathless. My hips arch into his, desperate to close the distance carved by weeks of silence, mistrust, and pain. I need him. Need all of him.

When I finally pull away, panting, Rashid’s mouth doesn’t stop – he trails burning kisses down my neck. His hands are on me, gripping me, lifting me, and I can’t stop myself from moaning – loudly – into his shoulder. It’s reckless. It’s fast. It’s messy. And I’m so into it.

I’ve heard of steamy makeup sex before, but until now it never really made sense. I get it now, the way this is escalating, like striking a match in dry heat. I’m only very dimly aware that we’re still on the balcony of Rashid’s hotel room and that we’re not exactly discreet. It’s not just me. Rashid’s breath stumbles, heavy and fast like mine, and he gasps – loudly – when I grind into him, picking up the pace. We’re engulfed in wildfire, and we don’t care.

The fabric between us needs to go. I pull my t-shirt over my head and carelessly fling it aside. Next I’m trying to free Rashid of his, but he suddenly stalls my hand. I look at him surprised. Am I going too fast? I’m very positive that he wants this as much as I do. Or so I thought. His body definitely says, “Hell yes!” The evidence is pretty obvious, but sometimes our bodies betray us. I’m lost and take a step back from him.

With a short moment’s hesitation, he lets go of my wrist with a sigh. I still don’t understand what’s happening, but before I can say anything, he starts taking his shirt off. I can’t help but gasp when I see what he’s revealing. There’s a large angry scar – not really a scar yet, more a barely healed wound – running down from just right of his navel and lost somewhere underneath his waistline.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rashid, what happened?” My pulse is still racing from the heat between us, but the sight slams into me like cold water. It feels like waking up from a fever dream to the harsh winds of my worst nightmare.

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” He deflects, brushing me off.

“That is not a scratch! You dragged me into the ER for far less.” The great story of our memorable first kiss. My head injury didn’t even need stitching. This one clearly did.

“It’s healing. It’s going to be fine.” He looks down at his feet. “I didn’t want you to see it. Not after last night…” He trails off.

“How did you think we’d have sex without me noticing it?” Something occurs to me. “Unless you didn’t want to have sex.”

“I did – I do want to. I want you.” He continues to kiss my neck, my collarbone, the small dip of my throat, and the distraction almost works. Almost.

“What the fuck happened? Tell me!” I push him away from me, maybe with a little more force than I meant to, but this is freaking me out.

Rashid sighs and rubs his temples. “Some people don’t take kindly to being watched, that’s all. Got too close. My mistake.”

I’m still in shock. I’ve always known his job can be dangerous, but that torn, furious slash across his skin makes it real, undeniably, viscerally real. It terrifies me down to my core.

“How far does it go down?” Even I can hear the tremor in my voice.

“No vital organs were harmed if that’s what you’re worried about.” He answers with a wry smile.

“Rashid! Seriously?” I growl at him, not in the mood for silly jokes.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully and pulls down one side of his sweatpants and boxer briefs. My eyes follow the ragged line down to his groin area. His pubic hair on that side was shaved off – probably to keep the wound clean – and I can see the cut stops just an inch before things get serious.

“Does it hurt?” My fingers stretch out to touch it but stop, just hovering above it, trembling.

“No. Not anymore. Not much anyway.” Rashid’s voice is low. I know he doesn’t like to admit he’s not invincible. He’s only my personal James Bond, not Superman, for fuck’s sake. I take a deep breath.

“What was it?” I look at his face, but he avoids my gaze.

“Just a knife. An ordinary stupid knife. Nothing cursed or supernatural. It’ll heal on its own.” He assures me, taking my shaking hand in his.

“Don’t the Talamasca have access to vampire blood? Didn’t you say Dr Bhansali works for them? Vampire blood could have healed this in no time.” I remember the night I was attacked and Louis’ blood healed me overnight. My cracked skull, broken ribs, and all cuts and bruises, gone without a trace within a couple of hours. At least superficially. The wounds they left on my soul took a little longer to vanish. The scars are still there.

“Yes, but I didn’t want any. I didn’t want the reminder.”

“You’d have rather died than drink vampire blood? Are you out of your fucking mind?” I’m starting to lose mine – again – as my brain catches up on the fact this could have been the end of him. After Sam’s phone call, I was haunted by images of Rashid – hurt, bleeding, dying somewhere. I told myself it was just my mind spiraling, twisting Sam’s mocking “probably” into something darker, knotted with the memory of Remy’s death. But this blade could have easily killed Rashid. An ice-cold shiver runs down my spine.

He chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it. “I’m pretty sure they would have shoved some down my throat if I was that close to dying, but as far as I could still make a fuss about it, they respected my choice.”

He lifts my hand and kisses my palm, burying his face in it.

“I survived, Wendell,” he says softly.

“Yeah? Congratulations! You survived. You fucking survived and left me thinking you were either dead or screwing your ex.” I’m not really mad at him. Just reeling from how close I came to my worst fear: losing him. Losing him forever with no chance of fixing it. Because you can’t fix death. Not even with vampire blood. Once you’re gone, you’re gone.

Rashid takes my hand and places it on his chest, his hand over mine.

“Still beating?” He asks. I nod, a little grudgingly, confirming I can feel his heartbeat – a low, steady thrum, quiet but unwavering.

“Still alive then.” He adds with a wry smile. “And I’m not screwing my ex either. Or anyone else. Only you – if you let me.” His grin widens a little.

“Dammit, Chaudhury.” It’s all I can say. Rashid gives me time to process, keeping his hand over mine. I nuzzle my head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. The place that I decided a long time ago is just wide enough for my forehead to fit in, like it was made for me. Rashid’s free arm snakes around my waist, and he leans into me.

“That’s all I ever wanted,” he whispers against my skin. “Come back to you. In one piece.”

“Dammit, Chaudhury.” I repeat. “I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t. I’m here.”

We remain there, in the darkness on this small motel balcony, just holding onto each other, and nothing else matters right now but this.

After a while, Rashid asks softly, “When was the last time you slept, Wendell?”

I shrug without moving away from him: “Yesterday… maybe… or the day before. I can’t remember.”

“And when was the last time you ate?” He continues his interrogation.

I shrug again: “Yesterday… maybe. Or the day before.”

“You lost weight.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t expect an answer.

“I know,” I murmur, still not looking at him.

It’s not like I’ve starved myself on purpose, and I don’t have an eating disorder. Well, unless you count eating irregularly as a disorder. I usually have a healthy, normal appetite – and Josie can attest, I will happily eat for two if the food is right – but when I lived on the streets, I didn’t have access to regular meals. I learnt to ignore feeling hungry. And that drinking some water helps to fill an empty stomach. Make it think it is full anyway.

That’s the unhealthy habit that remains from my life as a street kid. I sometimes don’t remember to eat. I just keep drinking coffee or water. It’s usually without dire consequences. Bruno will remind me that he’s on the verge of starvation if I don’t feed him regularly, which reminds me that I need to feed myself as well. Just over the last few weeks, my mind was elsewhere a lot, and I skipped a few more meals. Nothing a bit of hearty Creole-style cuisine won’t fix.

I only feel bone-tired right now. Since the night Sam called, my body has been pumped full of adrenaline, my brain running on high voltage. Now the weeks of not sleeping, not eating, and the relentless tension of waiting for a ghost who might never come back to me – it all comes crashing down. I’m glad Rashid is holding me, because my limbs feel like pudding, and I don’t trust them to support me much longer.

“I think you need some rest, jaanu.” I can hear Rashid’s voice near my ear, and I just nod. I follow him back into the room and sit down on the bed. It’s as cosy and comfortable as it looks. It’s hard to stay upright when all I want to do is keel over and sink into these soft pillows.

“Lie down, close your eyes for a moment, and I’ll order us some food. How does that sound?” Rashid suggests.

I nod again. It’s like someone just unplugged my power cord, and I’m running on low battery.

I still manage to kick off my sneakers, and after a short moment’s hesitation, I pull down my jeans. To hell with false modesty. If it weren’t for the “scarus interruptus”, we’d be blissing out post-coitus right now, naked. “My Mama didn’t raise me to track street dirt into bed,” I explain, and I can hear Rashid laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, and I never thought I’d ever hear it again. I’m not too exhausted to feel that flicker of warmth returning inside me.

I can feel Rashid’s lips press against my forehead. “Sleep, Wendell. I’ll wake you up when the food is here.”

I’m actually half asleep already when I reach for him: “Rashid?” I can hear him hum softly in response. “Can you hold me, please?”

“Sure can.” And the last thing I feel before drifting off are his arms around me.

I wake up in the middle of the night and feel more like myself in weeks. It’s a miracle what a few hours of uninterrupted, deep sleep can do. The room is dark, and Rashid lies beside me. He’s turned the other way, but I can see he stripped out of his clothes, too. I resist the temptation to touch him to make sure he’s not only a phantom. This feels unreal, but for the first time in forever, I feel a little calmer and more hopeful. Rashid was hurt – and the thought of a knife stabbing him, the force it took to create such a scar terrifies me more than I can say. But he’s here, with me, and he’s alive.

His body is radiating heat, and in contrast to the previous night, it doesn’t make me recoil from him. It comforts me, and the difference is: I believe him. There’s still a chance of a future for us. That’s something I didn’t think was possible for the longest time. Rashid loves me, and he wants to be with me. The little furnace beside me is igniting the warm coal fire inside of me again.

As my body starts its regeneration cycle, I’m also hungry for the first time in forever. I get up to drink a glass of water and potentially raid the mini bar when I discover a pizza box on the small coffee table. The pizza is cold, of course, but still perfectly edible. I don’t even care if it’s vegan or not. Knowing Rashid, he made sure it was. I devour about half of it, leaving some for Rashid in case he’s hungry when he wakes up. I down it all with a can of Diet Coke and a small bottle of orange juice from the mini bar.

I’m still chewing on a bar of dark chocolate while I watch Rashid fast asleep on the bed and count my lucky stars that he is still here. That we’re still together. Or again? Does the half day we were broken up count? Are we even back together again? I’m a little uncertain about our current relationship status. It’s complicated, as they say. Rashid lies on his side curled up. I frown. That’s not really like him. He typically sleeps on his back, stomach, or tangled up with me. Something isn’t right, and it takes me a moment to register what it is.

I don’t know if it’s his breathing or the odd sleeping position, but I realise he’s awake, probably just pretending to sleep. I put the remaining chocolate bar aside and squat down on the bed beside him. There’s a sliver of moonlight coming in through the blinds, and I can vaguely make out his features. His eyes are closed, and his face is half hidden in his pillow. Wordlessly I put one hand on his cheek. I can feel some wetness underneath my skin. He stays silent, doesn’t open his eyes but takes my hand in his and kisses my palm. I bend down to kiss his lips. They taste salty.

“I’m here, love.” I whisper to him. I don’t quite understand what happened. Did he wake up and find the bed empty and think I left?

“Scoot over a little,” I ask him, so I can get into bed next to him. He does so silently, and I stretch out next to him. “Sorry, I don’t have a cool pet name for you.” My hand is on his side, and I’m all too aware it’s only inches away from the red-hot angry scar that almost took him from me.

“Love is fine,” he says, and there is a rasp in his tone, quiet but unmissable.

Then it dawns on me. His tears are not in fear that I left but because he realised how close he came to losing me. It’s a delayed reaction to our fight. My hand moves to his face, gently touching his cheek.

“Maybe if you give me a bit of time, I can come up with something appropriate. What about…” I ponder my options for a moment. “My sweet peach? Or mon amour?” I try to say the latter with the fakest of fake French accents with as much of a rolling R my American tongue can muster. It’s lame, but it has the desired effect. He lets out a small groan in mock-pain, but I can feel the vibration of his chuckle against my stomach.

“Please don’t… love is really fine.” He pleads with me.

Laughing is better than crying. Kissing is even better, so I do. Soft and slow, savouring every moment of it. I kiss his lips, then his cheeks, temples and eyelids. Kissing every trace of sadness and tears away. Back to his lips, exploring his mouth, then placing kiss after small kiss along his jawline and chin. Trailing my lips down the column of his neck and feeling his quickening pulse just above the hollow of his throat. My hands are on his shoulders, roaming to his chest, down to his abdomen. I let my mouth follow their path, kissing every inch of skin he offers me, the dip of his sternum, and along the curve of his ribcage. They’re wide, open kisses, my tongue tasting his skin.

Rashid’s breathing grows heavier, hitching when I graze over a sensitive place. I hear him sigh my name, and it makes my head spin. In this moment, I want nothing more than to stay like this – just the two of us in the quiet dark. Making love. This is not the heated, hungry makeup sex we started earlier. This is something slower. Tender and unhurried.

I pause and glance up at Rashid’s face. His eyes are closed, trusting me. I slowly lift my thumb and brush it – carefully, gingerly – over the scar. I feel him flinch. His body tenses, and I instantly pull away.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Rashid stays rigid for a moment. Then he shakes his head – reluctantly, like part of him still isn’t sure if he can admit, even to himself, that he’s not invincible. That he has his Kryptonite.

“No, you didn’t. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just…” He pauses. “It’s the memory. I can still feel it sometimes. The knife. The way it went in. And down.” He shudders as his body remembers the cold steel slicing into his flesh.

I can feel it, too. A stabbing pain in my chest, and my heart bleeds for the man I love. My head rests on his stomach, feeling the gentle movement of his muscles as his breathing ebbs and flows. He was hurt. But he’s alive. He’s here. With me.

His fingers are in my hair, lightly combing through it as if to assure me of his presence. Perhaps assuring himself that I’m still with him.

“Maybe I can drown out the bad memories with good ones?” I suggest. It’s what he’s doing for me. Every one of his touches and kisses covers up the memory of a man who took me against my will. Because I didn’t want to sleep with any of them. I only did it for the money. They had my consent, but it was bought consent. With Rashid, they fade away. Maybe I can do the same for him.

“If I hurt you, please let me know and I’ll stop.” I murmur before gently pressing feathery kisses to his naval and brush my lips against his wounded skin. He doesn’t flinch this time, but I can feel his muscles tense beneath me. I do it again. And again, tracing the ridge with gentle care. His skin feels warmer there. Tentatively, I lick along the ragged path, and a soft moan slips from Rashid’s lips – but it’s not pain.

Languidly I let my hand glide into his boxer briefs, and my action is rewarded with a groan. His hips slightly arch against my touch and silently beg for more. I smile against his skin. I know what he wants, and I know he won’t ask for it. He never does. He always lets me decide what I want to do. But sometimes, it is so easy to read him.

At an almost agonisingly slow pace, I free him from his underwear – then shed mine swiftly. My mouth is on him – kissing, licking, sucking – and his reaction tells me I made the right call. His breathing catches in his throat, and I know he’s biting his lip to stop himself from being too noisy. Instead, soft whimpers escape his lips as he’s desperately trying to stay in control, desperately trying not to buck into my mouth the way his instincts tell him. Let loose, mon bébé, let me make you come undone…

I keep going until I feel him getting close. When I let him go, a half-suppressed, disappointed moan slips from Rashid’s lips – and it makes me chuckle. I slide up his body, careful not to press too hard against his scar. My lips find his mouth again, claiming it with a hungry bite, coaxing moans that grow deeper, wetter, more urgent. The dam breaks – there’s no holding back now. His hands seize my hips, thumbs digging in as he pulls me flush against him, urging me to move faster, harder, needing it as much as I do. We’re loud and messy, and this won’t last much longer. I sneak my hand between us, increasing the friction – it sends Rashid over the edge. His hand finds mine, and together, we finish what I started.