It was a week or so before Jamie reappeared on Marc’s doorstep, and by then, Marc was as back on his feet as he’d ever be. He was also working a week of day shifts, so it was dark when he pulled up outside the house, and Jamie’s slender form caught him off guard when it loomed out of the darkness.

“Sorry.” Jamie’s smirk said he was anything but. “Did I scare you?”

“Not really. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“I can come back another time—”

“Shut it.” Marc jammed his key in the front door. “I wasn’t expecting you because I figured you’d have stopped by already if you wanted to see me.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Sorry about that. I’ve been going to meetings in Derby to keep myself busy. It’s a three-hour round trip and talking about junk with other junkies wears me out. I know it’s good for me, but it scares me too.”

After decades with men who’d divulged as few of their real emotions as possible, Marc was slowly growing used to how much Jamie could reveal about himself in just a couple of words. He let them into the house and headed straight for the kitchen, since Jamie had seemed to like it so much last time.

Sure enough, Jamie’s delight at the AGA’s blanketing heat was soul food. Marc couldn’t help a low chuckle and a light squeeze of Jamie’s shoulder as he passed him to habitually put the kettle on the stove. “Shall I get a bigger laundry basket so you can join the cat?”

“She does seem pretty content.” Jamie crouched beside Natalie and tickled her belly as she rolled over for him in the nest she’d made in Marc’s clean clothes. “You’d never get rid of me, though. I don’t sleep much, but I hate getting up, especially when it’s cold.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the cold the other night.”

“Yeah, I don’t so much when I’m twitchy. It’s a good distraction.”

“Are you twitchy today?”

Jamie glanced up with a self-conscious grimace. “Not especially. And I’m embarrassed about the other night. I’ve been clean for a year. I shouldn’t still be getting so fucked up over it.”

“Why not? Being clean isn’t a cure for whatever pushed you to drugs in the first place.”

Jamie’s eyes darkened, and he glanced back at Natalie. “They told me it was genetic in California. That it wouldn’t have mattered what my life was like, I’d have been an addict anyway.”

“That might be true.” Marc searched out the rooibos tea he liked to drink at the end of a long day. “But you might not have found your way to heroin if you hadn’t needed it to survive.”

“You think I needed junk to stay alive? That’s a new one. I thought you didn’t know much about addiction?”

“I don’t—medically speaking. But, um—” Marc faltered. Was he really about to confess that he’d sat up all day after their last encounter, reading every addiction article he could find, and that, of all things, it had been a comedian’s Guardian column that had finally made sense? “Look, you might be physically clean, and that’s an amazing achievement, but you miss the drugs because they’ve left a void in your life—and it’s obviously a void that whatever you were doing in America didn’t fill. Or you’d still be there.”

“Going to America saved me. I was so far gone that I wouldn’t be here if Liam hadn’t made me go.”

“Who’s Liam?”

“Zac’s boyfriend.” Jamie gave Natalie a last tickle and then stood. “He owns Sea Rave. Didn’t I tell you that already?”

“Maybe,” Marc said with a shrug. “I’ve been so knackered this last month or so I can barely remember my name.”

“You’re better now, though. I can see it.” Jamie came closer and peered into Marc’s face in a way that would’ve had him shoving any other man halfway across the kitchen. “You’re walking different too. I wouldn’t know about your leg now if you hadn’t told me.”

Part of Marc wished that he hadn’t told Jamie. Because the sympathy in Jamie’s eyes was hard to take when all Marc wanted to do was push him up against the wall and kiss him again. Unbidden, his mind recalled the first time he’d shown his ruined body to a man who wasn’t a doctor or a friend as hardened by war as he was. The shock of a random Grindr hookup had been tough enough to swallow. He couldn’t handle it from Jamie.

Not that it mattered. Jamie hadn’t mentioned the kiss in the car, and the moment had passed for it to drop into casual conversation. Yeah, ’cause conversations with Jamie are always casual . . . not.

“Are you okay? You look miles away.”

Marc blinked. Jamie was right in front of him, even closer than before. His warmth seeped into Marc, and the wooziness that often came with being near Jamie made his head swim before he got a tenuous hold on himself. “Are you hungry?”

“What?”

“Hungry,” Marc repeated. “My neighbour feeds Natalie when I’m at work and does a bit of shopping for me. She’s goes a bit maverick sometimes, but there’s probably something around here we can have for dinner.”

“You don’t have to feed me every time you see me.”

Marc begged to differ. Jamie’s slender bones were built to carry his slight frame, but the hollowness in his cheeks seemed more pronounced than ever, and while Marc could do nothing to chase his addiction away, a hot dinner he could manage.

A dinner of what, though, he had no idea. He opened the fridge and scrutinised the contents, trying not to overreact as Jamie came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.

“I’m not much of a cook,” Marc admitted. “I’m a chuck-it-in-a-pot-and-hope-for-the-best kinda guy.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I don’t have a huge repertoire, but my mate Marvin taught me how to make his dad’s groundnut chicken. It’s Ghanaian. Have you got any peanut butter?”

“Erm, maybe. What else do you need?”

Jamie reached around Marc and grabbed the bag of chicken pieces Mrs. Valentino had left in the fridge. “Onions, garlic . . . some chillies, if you have them?”

“I’ve definitely got chillies. They’re in the sun room.”

“The what?”

“Come see.” Marc straightened up and took Jamie’s arm almost absently, struck once again by how normal such intimate interactions had fast become. How easy. He towed Jamie to the neglected conservatory at the end of the hall, a bright open space that had, in effect, become a greenhouse. “My mate Nat is a bit of a Charlie Dimmock. He sent me a chilli plant for Christmas.”

Of all that Marc had shared with Jamie, apparently the fact that he had a stash of fresh chillies in amongst a collection of neglected herbs and houseplants was the most enlightening. Jamie pushed past Marc and picked up the ever-growing chilli bush—damn thing was three times the size it had been when it arrived from sunny Hereford.

“These are Scotch bonnets,” Jamie said with the widest grin he’d treated Marc to so far. “They’re just what we need. Can I take a bay leaf too?”

“A what?”

“One of those.” Jamie pointed to another of Nat’s attempts to make Marc’s existence less utilitarian.

“Sure. Have at it.”

Jamie squeezed his way to the dusty pot in the corner and plucked a few leaves from a small tree that looked like it needed a holiday from Marc’s indifference, and a handful of bright-orange chillies. When he came back, he had a colour in his cheeks that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.

“I’d feed you six times a day if it meant you smiled like that,” Marc blurted.

Jamie’s grin turned shy and his slight flush deepened. “Um, thanks, but you’re not going to feed me. I’m going to feed you, if you don’t mind me using your kitchen?”

Marc wasn’t about to object to anyone rescuing him from a solitary night of tea and toast, especially if that someone was Jamie. They went back to the kitchen and unearthed the final few things Jamie needed for his chicken dinner. Then Marc leaned against the counter and watched Jamie cook, and wondered if he’d been dropped into an alternative reality of blessed domestication—a reality that felt damn good. “That smells amazing.”

The shyness returned to Jamie’s smile. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I used to make a vegan version with tofu for the canteen, but I like the chicken better. It was the first real food I ate when I came out of rehab.”

“So it’s your comfort food?”

“Maybe, but all food is like that for me, ’cause I still remember what it was like to not have any.”

“Ah, see I went the opposite way. I got so used to eating sachets of bangers and beans that I forgot how much I liked fresh food. I had to train myself not to live the rest of my life on tinned ravioli.”

“Is Army food that bad?”

“Worse, but we ate every meal with a tube of extra-hot mustard, so we didn’t taste anything anyway.”

Jamie grinned wickedly and chucked another chilli in the pot—whole, seeds and all. “I like spicy food. It gives me a buzz, a healthy one, you know?”

“I get that from the treadmill when I get round to using it.”

“I can’t picture you as a gym bunny.”

Marc chuckled. “I’m not. I have a treadmill downstairs for when I’m not feeling up to pounding the streets, and the rest of the time I use the house to keep me fit.”

“Eh?”

Marc pushed off the counter and retreated to the kitchen doorway. He reached up to the bar he’d fixed in the doorframe and pulled himself up with one arm. “The benefits of super high doors and ceilings.”

Jamie opened his mouth. Shut it again. “Wow. You’re strong.”

“Not really. I can’t do shit with my legs.”

“But you can run?”

“Jog a bit. I’ve got a special blade that fits to my prosthesis in place of the foot. It’s weird and bouncy, but I go nuts when I don’t get out.”

“I can’t imagine you a bit nuts either. You’re so together.”

“Am I?” Marc lowered himself back to the ground and returned to loitering at Jamie’s side. “I don’t feel it some days, but my mental health is better now all the surgery is behind me.”

Jamie turned the chicken over in the pan and added the dubious tin of coconut milk Marc had dug out of the pantry. “You don’t need any more?”

“Nope. I was on the fence about the nerve graft, but it should help with the phantom limb pain, so I’m glad I had it. Anyway, enough about me—what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?”

“I already told you. Going to meetings and job hunting.”

“Did you have any luck? With the job hunting, I mean.”

“No.”

Jamie didn’t elaborate, and he turned his back on Marc to open the oven and slide his bubbling pan inside. Marc took the hint and searched for a change of subject, but other than the crazy-good smell already coming from the stove, came up blank. “How’s your flat? Is it warm enough?” Smooth, man. Smooth.

But Jamie didn’t seem to mind. He carefully shut the AGA door and wiped his hands on a tea towel. “It’s not cold, but it’s bare. Just the furniture and me. I’ve thought about keeping the telly on all the time, but that crap drives me mad.”

“You don’t have any books?”

“A couple, but they’re self-help bullshit that my sponsor gave me before I left Cali. I only read them when I’m desperate.”

Marc couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room any longer. “Remember you can take as many as you like from upstairs. I’m sure you’d find plenty if you went through them.”

“Is that your way of asking me if I’m on my arse enough to accept your charity?”

There was no bitterness lacing Jamie’s words, but they stung all the same. “It’s not charity. You’d be doing me a favour. And if you don’t want to do it, I’ll pay someone else. How is that charity?”

“You didn’t make it up because you felt sorry for me?”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re young, clever, and gorgeous, and you’ve got your whole life to look forward to. Why the fuck would I feel sorry for you?” It wasn’t much of a lie. Marc’s heart ached for all that Jamie had been through, but he’d been around the block enough to know that such things shaped a man like Jamie. He’s so much stronger than he realises. “I didn’t make it up, mate. Think what you want about yourself, but I haven’t got time for games.”

The urge to walk away festered in Marc’s gut, but Jamie stayed him with a featherlight brush of his fingers over Marc’s forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m just rubbish at interacting with anyone who isn’t trying to fuck me. It’s like I’m conditioned to fight everyone in case they screw me over.”

Marc stared at where Jamie’s fingers had come to rest on his skin, marvelling at how sweetly they burned. “That’s pretty admirable, really—that you still want to fight.”

“Fight other people, not fight for myself. There’s nothing admirable about that.”

“Suit yourself. But whatever you think, I didn’t make that job up for you. It’s yours if you want it, someone else’s if you don’t.”

“I never said I didn’t want it.” Jamie’s hand remained on Marc’s arm.

Marc licked his lips and sucked in a shaky breath. “If you want it, take it.”

“That theory hasn’t worked out so well for me in the past.”

“You don’t live in the past.”

Jamie was silent, apparently transfixed by where they were joined as much as Marc was. Recklessness struck Marc. He took Jamie’s other hand and tugged gently until Jamie was in front of him, so close their knees touched, and Marc felt him everywhere, even in his missing leg. “You’ve got to give yourself a chance.”

The stern words he’d intended came out as barely a whisper, and Jamie didn’t blink when a tiny tear escaped his chaotic eyes and slid down his haunted face.

Marc broke Jamie’s hold on his wrist and wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Life was forced on you last year by someone who cared when you didn’t. I know you care now, and so do I—about both of us. So let’s help each other, eh? At least until you find something else?”

“I’m not going to find anything else. There’s nothing here for me.”

“You’re going to leave?” Marc’s heart struck up a cold, painful tattoo, and Jamie’s bleak expression as he shook his head did little to ease the anxiety clawing at Marc’s gut. But he couldn’t ask Jamie to stay. Jamie deserved a life, and he wasn’t going to find it holed up in Marc’s dark, gloomy house—

Jamie’s lips brushed Marc’s, stealing Marc’s breath, and then his hips dug into Marc, bony and sharp, his torso finding a perfect cradle in Marc’s arms. Startled, Marc gasped, but kissing Jamie was as easy as breathing, even though he knew it wouldn’t chase Jamie’s demons away.

Their lips met again and again. Marc’s body responded to Jamie’s every touch and stuttered breath, but he fought the urge to pull Jamie closer, to deepen their kiss to something more. Jamie was fragile, like a beautiful moth without a flame, and Marc ghosted his hands over him like he was made of threadbare silk, all the while caging him in his arms as tightly as he dared.

Jamie broke the kiss. “Oh God. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“So why did you?”

“Because you’re fucking gorgeous and I wanted to. See? I always screw it up when I do shit without thinking.”

Marc let his arms drop. He wanted to tell Jamie that he’d thought about kissing him ever since that very first time all those weeks ago, but he didn’t. He said nothing as he watched a thousand emotions pass through Jamie’s face.

He waited for Jamie to pull away, but Jamie’s only movement was to press his forehead against Marc’s chest. After a moment, Marc gave in and wrapped his arms around him again. “Don’t be sorry,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I’m not. Just don’t do anything you’re not ready for, okay? Whatever happens, you’ve got a friend in me.”

“I don’t deserve that.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Jamie pushed back on Marc’s chest and looked up with a watery scowl. “You should. My friends get hurt.”

“So do mine. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have any.”

Jamie sighed and banged his head on Marc’s breastbone. “I can’t argue with you when you say shit like that. My brain wants to, but then I think of you all blown up and in pain and I can’t stop.”

“Try. I don’t want you to think of me that way.”

Jamie said nothing for a long moment, then he sighed again and wrenched himself free of Marc’s embrace. Marc steeled himself for Jamie to leave, but he didn’t. He reached for the rice he’d found in the pantry and dumped it into a small pan, his back to Marc, his narrow shoulders hunched. “If I’m going to be here for a little while clearing out the library, you’ve got to let me cook for you. It calms me down when I’m being a dick.”

“Why don’t you do it at home, then?”

“It’s not worth it when I’m on my own.”

Marc had no argument for that. How many nights did he go to bed on an empty stomach because he simply couldn’t be arsed to fuck around in the kitchen? He tempered his relief that Jamie had seemed to have halfway accepted his job offer, and then chanced a grin, even though Jamie was apparently hell-bent on not looking at him. “All right. I was going to advertise the job at eighty quid a day, nine to five. That okay with you?”

“I’m not bothered about the money, and I’m not a nine-to-five type of guy.”

Marc chuckled. “Neither am I, but I had it in my head that some old duffer from the village would be helping me out. You can work whenever you want. I’ll give you a key.”

“That’s brave.”

“Not really. I’ve told you before—anything you pinch you’d be doing me a favour.”

“What if I burn your house down?” Finally, some humour warmed Jamie’s voice.

Marc grasped his shoulders, turning him around to meet his gaze. “You’re an addict, not a lunatic, but if it helps, know this: if you burn my house down, I’ll fuck you up. Got it?”

Jamie swallowed. “Is it wrong that I love how much you mean that?”

“No, but you should probably finish cooking dinner now, before this shit gets out of hand.”

With gargantuan effort, Marc left the kitchen and retreated to the bathroom to wash the day away. His shift at the hospital seemed like a lifetime ago, even though he’d only been home an hour, but his muscles ached for the comfort of pounding hot water.

Another part of him ached too, but Marc ignored his hard dick and settled for boiling himself under the scorching spray until his mind was devoid of everything except his stinging skin.

He couldn’t hide out in the shower forever, though, and with the sweet, spicy scent coming from the kitchen, he didn’t want to. Dressed in sweats and a battered Stone Roses T-shirt, he answered the call in his heart and returned to find Jamie serving deep bowls of the kind of food Marc had dreamed of when he’d been stuck on operations. These days, it was long shifts that had him dreaming of a hot dinner, and tonight, he’d struck gold.

“Damn. That smells amazing.”

“I shouldn’t say it, but it tastes pretty fucking good too. Did you shower?”

“Uh-huh.” Marc accepted his bowl and took a seat at the table. “Always do after work. Helps me separate work from real life.”

“How was your day? Did you see lots of horrible things?”

“Not really. Emergency departments aren’t like they are on TV. It’s quite rare to have major drama. Didn’t even see an RTC today.”

“RTC—a car crash?”

“A road collision, doesn’t have to be a car, but yes . . . you’re pretty much there.” Marc took a bite of his dinner and all thoughts of work were instantly forgotten. “Bloody hell. You’re gonna cook this every day while you’re working upstairs, right?”

“I’d imagine so. Unless you want to exist on noodles.” Jamie was picking at his own food with the air of a man who had the whole world on his mind.

Marc cleared half his bowl, then nudged Jamie with his metal foot. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Yup.”

Fair enough. Marc had spent enough time with Jamie to know that it would come out eventually. They ate in a companionable silence, and Marc made no move to leave the table until Jamie had finished most of his dinner and pushed his bowl away.

Marc dumped the bowls in the sink, content to deal with them in the morning, but Jamie appeared silently at his side and turned the taps on.

“You don’t have to clear up too,” Marc said.

“Actually, I do. I don’t like dirty dishes, even in someone else’s house. They give me the creeps.” Jamie added washing-up liquid and then stuck his hands in the sink. “My therapist in California said I might have mild OCD, but I already knew that because I had it before I chose drugs to make me happy.”

“Do you think you have it again now you’re clean?”

“If it ever really went away, but that dude also said I had PTSD, depression, and chronic anxiety, so I think he was a bit of a label freak.”

“It is possible to have all those conditions at once, you know. And you might have had them before you got hooked on drugs. That’s what I was trying to say the other day—badly, obviously—that addictions can be the result of other issues.”

“I didn’t take heroin because I wasn’t doing enough housework. I took it because I was homeless and cold and fucking terrified that my stepdad would find me and make me go home. The fact that it stopped me tapping everything I touched was a bonus.”

And there it was—the characteristic slew of information Jamie liked to release in one breath and knock Marc for six. “Why didn’t you want to go home with your stepdad?”

“Because he kept trying to fuck me,” Jamie said flatly. “He never did, but hanging around the park on smack seemed like a better plan than hanging around waiting for his next try.”

The hot meal Jamie had so diligently prepared turned to acid in Marc’s belly. Rage, grief, sympathy—he felt it all in the space of ten seconds, but Jamie cut it dead with a firm shake of his head.

“Don’t,” he said. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t need to hear it. I’m not traumatised by it, never have been; I just needed to get away. And I’m not scared of sex, so don’t even start with that shit.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.” Jamie washed the last dirty dish and set it carefully on the draining board. “I get that childhood can influence what happens for the rest of your life, but my dirty stepdad didn’t make me take drugs.”

“Okay.” Marc watched as Jamie wiped every inch of the sink and the surfaces around it—and wiped them again . . . six times. “What about the OCD? Do you think you might have it?”

“I don’t care if I have it.”

“Why not?”

“Man, you’re such a doctor. Have a day off, mate.” Jamie put the sponge down, though Marc could tell he wasn’t quite done, and that leaving it alone was just about killing him. “Why are we always talking about my shit? You’re the one who must have PTSD. All soldiers get it, don’t they?”

“If only it was that predictable. I’ve seen some horrible things, but I seem to have come out of it okay for the most part. I’m very lucky.”

“Or you’re dead inside.”

“That too. What do you think? If you don’t have it either, perhaps we’re both a little cold.”

Jamie moved like a snake and dragged his lips over Marc’s cheek. “There isn’t anything about you that’s cold, which is why I need to go home. I’ll be back tomorrow. Leave a key somewhere if you’re not going to be home. I won’t trash the place, I promise.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Marc nothing but a spotless kitchen and grumpy cat to keep him company for the rest of the night.

Is this kid even real?