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The doc turned to Weston, a question poised on his lips, but I jumped the gun. “You don’t wanna know. Trust me.” My voice was gravel, the words spilling out between winces.
“Fair,” he nodded, pulling off his gloves with a snap that echoed like a challenge in the room.
I slumped back against the couch, barely keeping my eyes open, but hell-bent on witnessing every moment. The doctor rifled through his bag, the sound of clinking glass and rustling paper filling the void between us. Two medicine bottles emerged, glinting under the condo’s sleek lighting, followed by a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a neat stack of gauze. Weston’s head swiveled my way, our gazes locking. He winked—a silent message in the chaos of pain and pills. A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth before he snapped back to business, addressing the doc.
“Got everything?” His voice was steady, just shy of strained.
“Should be enough for now.” The doc’s reply was clipped as he set to work.
The doc finished with Weston, his hands sure and swift as he taped gauze over the last of the cuts. Instructions fell from his lips, a litany of dos and don’ts that sounded like they were coming from underwater. I struggled to keep my eyes open, each blink an epic battle against the weight of my own eyelids. Pain throbbed in my skull; a relentless drumbeat synced to my racing heart.
“Take care now,” the doc said as he gathered his things, his voice fading into the background noise. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the condo too quiet, too still.
Weston moved, and I tracked him with effort, watching him disappear into the kitchen. The clink of glass, the rustle of fabric—details registered in slow motion. He returned, a bottle of water in one hand and a damp towel in the other, the mundane objects somehow out of place in the sterile luxury of his condo. I rolled my tongue out like some thirsty dog, craving the relief I knew those pills would bring.
Weston shot me a look, amusement dancing in his brown eyes. “Can I at least clean you up first?” he asked, voice rich with that same infuriating patience he always had.
I wanted to argue, to cuss him out, but my body was a traitor, craving his touch even through the haze of pain and booze. His presence, his goddamn care—it was like a drug I couldn’t quit, no matter how hard I tried to hate him.
The cold of the damp towel hit my nose, a shock against the throb that pulsed through my face. “Shit,” I whined, the sting splintering through my haze.
“Your nickname should have been crybaby instead.” His voice had this playful edge, a tease that knew how to twist under my skin.
“I’m not a crybaby,” I slurred. A weak protest against his smirk.
“I beg to differ.” And there it was, that damn smirk turning into a full-blown grin as he dabbed at the mess on my face like some twisted Florence Nightingale.
His hand tossed the bloodied towel onto the coffee table with easy precision, his eyes never leaving mine. He cracked open the pill bottle, shaking two out before tossing them back with a swig of water, throat working as he swallowed. I watched, trapped in a body too beaten to do anything but grunt.
“Stick out your crybaby-ass tongue.”
He laced his command with mockery, and fuck if I didn’t do just that, letting him see the rebellion in my eyes even as I complied.
He loomed over me, the shadow cast by his frame a strange comfort despite everything. Hands that could break or heal hovered above me, and in that moment, blurred by pain and need, I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more. Pills hit my tongue, bitter as fuck. I gagged on their chalky residue, washing them down with a grimace. The water was cold, cutting through the taste but not the disgust.
“Jesus, that’s vile,” I spat out, the words chased by another round of coughing.
“Stop being so dramatic.” He stood, towering over me, a goddamn giant in his own right. His hand reached out, offering help I didn’t want.
“Can I sleep on the couch?” I yawned instead, sprawling out, limbs heavy and uncooperative.
He sighed, a sound that cut through the air. His eyes darted from the suede surface to my crumpled form. “Don’t you love me more than the couch?” I threw the question like a challenge, watching him falter.
Weston walked away, the tension in his shoulders telling a story he’d never say out loud. He returned, arms loaded: water, tissues, blanket. He dropped the cover over me, rough but caring. His face was close, breath ghosting my skin.
“Tonight I do.” His voice was low, a secret meant only for me.
Heat brushed against my lips, a fleeting comfort that sparked something low in my gut. His kiss was a rough promise, the kind that didn’t need words but came with them anyway. His presence loomed, a fortress against everything fucked-up between us. For a moment, just one goddamn second, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, it was true.
“Better not fucking vomit on my floor,” he said against my mouth, his breath spiked with the scent of mint. “Or I’ll kick your ass.”
I could taste the threat and the concern all tangled up together, leaving me with nothing to say. He pulled back, eyes dark pools in the dim light of the condo, unreadable yet laying everything bare. The room spun a little less, his presence grounding, even as it ignited the usual wildfire inside me. Weston cared. An inconvenient truth wrapped in a sharp-tongued warning. And for tonight, that was enough.
Chapter16
Darius
The damn sunlight stabbed through the window, mocking the hell out of last night’s shit show. My head pounded as if it was on steroids. Shit, I felt like roadkill that somehow crawled onto Weston’s plush couch.
