A TASTE OF SIN
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Jack didn’t flinch at the outburst. He just kept wrapping my hand, slower now, more careful. Like he thought if he moved gently enough, I might calm down too.
“I’m not everyone,” he said quietly. “I’m the guy who picked you up off the curb when you were too wrecked to stand. I’m the guy who didn’t ask questions when you showed up at two in the morning with bleeding knuckles and eyes that looked like they’d seen hell.”
I clenched my jaw, looking away. I hated this.
“I didn’t come here to be fixed,” I muttered.
“Good,” Jack said, tying the bandage off. “Because you’re not broken. You’re just hurting. There’s a difference.”