He seems to react to that, looking away like I’ve struck a nerve.

“I’m not unhappy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

“Because I wish you’d talk to me. After everything, I just want to hear one thing, Rafe. Tell me one thing or just let me know that I’ve helped you.”

“Is that what this is to you?” He stands up and approaches the large hanging punching bag. “You want to heal me?”

“I don’t heal people. That’s not my business, but if I can ease your pain, then yes, that’s what this is.”

“I’m not your fucking patient.” I can feel him getting angry, and I don’t want to upset him, so I put my hands up.

“I don’t give my patients blow jobs,” I say, and he laughs. What starts as a low chuckle builds into a heavy cackle, and I can’t help but join in.

After a moment, the tension eases and I stand up, watching him while he throws punches at the bag. The rippled muscles in his back tense, and it becomes increasingly hard to not touch them. His skin is a shade or two darker than mine, a natural amber glow that shines under these lights and that thin sheen of sweat.

“Why did you say it like that?” he asks, grabbing the heavy bag and stopping its slow sway.

“Say what?”

“You just want to know that you’ve helped me,” he says, and I can see a hint of shame in the way his eyes don’t meet mine.

My shoulders soften as I step toward him, hugging the opposite side of the bag to be closer to him. “I didn’t mean it like that, Rafe. But you won’t even let me touch you, and I want to...so bad.”

“There have to be plenty of other guys on Wicked who could give you what you want.”

I know he doesn’t mean that. I know he doesn’t want to think about me with other guys, but he’s being defensive, pushing his feelings aside so that I don’t stomp on them.

“None of them would get me nearly as fired up as you do,” I say with a smile.

He smirks at me, and I almost remember a time—just a few weeks ago, that I wanted to punch him. And it’s not gone, it’s just changed. It brought us closer together, and now it’s dangerously close to something else entirely.

“My birth parents were just really fucked up,” he says before taking a couple quick punches. He doesn’t punch with gloves like I do. His hands are loosely wound with gauze, but there is no wrist or hand support. I glance up at his face, backing away from the bag. What the hell do I say to that? I have no clue, so I let him have the space and silence he needs.

“They were a special brand of psychopath that thought that I...that we...were born so wicked that we needed to un-learn all of the deviant thoughts we were born with. They started with me.”