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“Nolan—”
“Eat,” I instruct, presenting him with the protein bar and water that I brought for him. “Drink.”
After a slight hesitation, he places his whiskey on the bedside table—next to a bloody rag and two empty bottles of liquor—and takes the items from me. I take note of the way he sways on his feet with the movements. Of the streak of blood on the hem of his shirt. Of the slurring of his previous words.
“I don’t wanna talk ’bout what happened,” he murmurs, lowering himself to the edge of his bed with a slight wince.
“Fine.” I eye the bedside table again, then him. His knuckles are once again swollen and split open on his right hand. That’s probably where the bloody rag and the blood on his shirt came from. Who knows when he drank the other two bottles of liquor and most of the whiskey in the bottle he’s working his way through right now. “Forgot the boxing gloves this time?”
He pauses just before taking a second bite of his meal bar, staring at a spot on the floor with his mouth still open. His shoulders slowly slump before he closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
A lump forms in my throat. “It’s okay. Let’s just—can I get you a new shirt, maybe? You’ve got some blood…”
“I can do it.” He finally takes that second bite of his bar before setting it and the water aside and heading to his dresser. I’m about to look elsewhere, planning on giving him privacy, but he grabs his shirt at the back of his neck and drags it off before I get a chance. My eyes immediately catch on the splashes of purple, yellow, and green that wrap around his torso, the worst of it on his right side by his ribs.
“Maison…”
He twists to look back at me, not even wincing at the movement. “What? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask incredulously. My feet are moving before I can stop them, bringing me close enough to rest my fingertips on a patch of his stomach that is unmarred. The muscles twitch beneath my touch, but he doesn’t move away. I drag my trembling hand to the very edge of the bruising on his right side, my stomach turning as I take in the varying shades of pooled blood. “These could be broken.”
“Shh.” He takes my hand in his, bringing our joined hands to rest against his chest instead. I can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my palm, the metal of his dog tags pressing against my thumb. It’s hard to feel comforted when I’m just now realizing how much he’s been hiding from me. “They’re fine. Just bruised.”
“Did the doctor tell you that?”
He looks away. I watch his throat bob with a hard swallow. “I haven’t seen him.”
“You what?” I all but growl. “Maison, these—these must hurt. All of you—all of—you could be—how could you not go see the doctor? You were violently—”
“I’m aware,” he snaps, his eyes narrowing at me. “I’m fully aware of what happened to me. I’m handling it.”
“No.” I shake my head, my bottom lip wobbling. “No, you’re not. You’re hiding from it.”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before letting it fall away and turning his back to me. “I’m fine, I promise.”
“Don’t lie to me, Maison. Not after everything we’ve shared.”
His shoulders pull up, but he doesn’t speak. Probably because he has nothing to stand on here. The movement draws attention to his bruises again. One is dangerously close to his kidney, and for it to be as deep and colored as it is after so long… it must have been nasty at first. “You definitely shouldn’t be hitting that heavy bag so damn hard in the gym. And—”
“Nolan,” he says in warning, grabbing a shirt from the dresser and dragging it over his head. How drunk is he that he doesn’t show any sign of pain after all this moving around? Or is he just so used to the pain at this point? I know from firsthand experience how easy it can be to hide pain reactions after you’ve had enough practice. “I told you, I don’t want you worryin’. That part isn’t a lie.”
“Well, too damn bad. You either head to the doctor right fucking now or you get your ass back to that bed and finish your sorry excuse of a meal. Then you’re going to sleep. And then you’re going to see him in the morning.”
He shakes his head, unable to even look at me. “I’m not tired. I’ve got more files to look through and—”
“You’re going to sleep,” I repeat, just barely managing to keep myself from stomping my foot. “Does that statement sound like a question?”
The corner of his jaw ticks, but he gives away his true feelings by how fond he sounds when he asks, “You’re a pain in my ass, ya know that?”
“Get used to it.”
He smiles, but it’s weighed down so heavily by emotional and physical exhaustion it barely even counts. “That’s one thing I wouldn’t mind gettin’ used to.”
The words throw me off for some reason. Not in an entirely bad way. Just in the sort of way that makes me feel a little… squirmy inside.
“Um,” I say like an idiot. “You should get some rest. I don’t even want to know how badly you’ve been sleeping.”
“You really don’t,” he agrees.
