He hated Justin being hurt. But he could never ask his husband, his hero, the man who’d saved his life long before any of the night’s events, to be less than a marvel.
Justin had looked at Kris Starr, cranky and petulant aging rock legend, and had seen someone worth salvaging, caring for, loving. Even before they’d been lovers. Even when Kris had insulted him and pretended they weren’t friends.
Justin loved like that: a gift, freely given. Because he thought everyone—an old worn-out rock star, a new friend, a person he’d only just met, a writer he’d offered a book contract—deserved to be loved.
Sometimes Kris still couldn’t believe Justin had married him. Sometimes he couldbelieve it, and then he swore on every single battle-lined bit of whatever soul he’d got left that he’d make Justin’s life as splendid and delicious and full of cherishing as his husband deserved.