Chapter 75: Chapter seventy five

Brandon Cole pov

I walked out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee.

The steam curled up in lazy spirals, carrying that bitter-dark aroma that usually grounded me. Today it did nothing. My hands were steady—too steady, the kind of steady that comes right before everything cracks. I crossed the living room in three long strides and handed one mug to Desmond without meeting his eyes.

“I don’t get why you keep trying to make yourself better for someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Desmond, despite me almost bursting his face three days ago, was back in my house like before. Sitting on my leather couch as if the split lip and the still-fading bruise under his left eye were nothing more than a bad hangover. Honestly? I felt bad. I felt bad because I’d hit my only friend—my only real friend, I had hit him for a man. A man who, for reasons I still couldn’t fully articulate even to myself, refused to walk away. Whatever this was between us, whatever label refused to stick, it kept pulling him back.

“You were so much better without him,” he added, taking the cup from me. He stole a sip before it even cooled, wincing slightly as the heat hit the cut on his bottom lip. I stared at his face and almost laughed—there was still a dark circle around his eye, the skin mottled purple and black like spilled ink, the blood vessels broken in angry webs.

“You don’t understand…” I muttered, dropping onto the couch beside him. I pushed the stack of case files aside with my foot and propped both legs on the low coffee table, trying to create distance without actually moving away.

I wasn’t better before Kingsley. I am not better without him. There’s… fuck.

Kingsley lived under my skin now, a low-grade fever I couldn’t shake. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the way his mouth curved when he laughed at something stupid I said, the way his fingers hesitated before touching me—like he was afraid I’d flinch. I couldn’t get him out of my system.

I couldn’t give him what he wanted, either: the clean, uncomplicated version of me that didn’t wake up screaming from nightmares or stare at walls for hours when the meds wore thin. And the thought of letting someone else take him—watching him smile that same half-shy smile at another man—felt like swallowing glass.

“Of course I don’t understand,” Desmond said, voice low and edged with something bitter. “I never understood the thing with Derek either, but guess what?”

He turned fully toward me, one knee drawn up on the cushion so his body angled in my direction. “You still picked him. Over and over. Until he finally hit you hard enough that even you couldn’t pretend it was love anymore.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I refused to look at him. Focused instead on the black surface of my coffee, watching the tiny ripples when my hand trembled.

Desmond was right. He was always fucking right. He had been different in all the worst ways—possessive, explosive, cruel in public and crueler in private.

“If you think he’s different because you’re fucking him…” Desmond let the sentence hang.

He leaned in a fraction. “You’re wrong. Get to know him more. Or—let me rephrase—let him get to see the real you.”

He shifted closer on the couch. I stiffened instantly. Too close. The heat of his body pressed against the side of my arm, the faint scent of his cologne. My shoulders locked instantly, my body reacting before my mind caught up. I hated that about myself—how fast my instincts kicked in, how little control I had once someone invaded my space uninvited.

“Let’s see if he would actually stay after knowing all the shit you went through,” Desmond continued, voice dropping softer, almost gentle. “The nights you couldn’t sleep because the walls were closing in. The times you locked yourself in the bathroom so you wouldn’t smash something. Do you think anyone would want a broken man?”

A broken man….. that ring louder in my ear.

“Why bother going far?” Desmond murmured. He was only an inch away now, his breath brushing my cheek. I wasn’t on my pills today—hadn’t taken the afternoon dose because I told myself I could handle it. Stupid. Arrogant.

“You’re too…” I managed, voice cracking.

“I’m here,” he said. “I have always been here. Even after everything—after Derek, after you pushed me away, after you hit me three days ago—I’m still here with you.”

“Desmond…”

“I will never leave you, Brandon.” His hand lifted slowly, hovering near my jaw. “Why go after someone who will discard you without a second thought? Like Derek did? Like half the people in your life have done?”

“Desmond.” My voice came out thinner, more desperate.

“Why can’t you look at me?”

I forced my eyes up. His gaze was steady, unguarded, the bruised skin around his eye making him look more vulnerable than threatening. Something inside me twisted—guilt, fear, exhaustion.

“You’re really freaking me out,” I whispered. My chest rose and fell too fast. Shallow. I could feel the panic clawing up my throat like nausea. I didn’t want to hit him again. I didn’t want to lose him. Kingsley already felt like sand slipping through my fingers; if Desmond walked out too, I wasn’t sure what would be left.

Why am I so broken?

Of all the people in my life, I can’t give them what they want.

Desmond’s hand finally settled—gentle, barely there—against the side of my face. His thumb brushed the edge of my cheekbone. “Be with me, Brandon.”