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But then he starts to move and then comes the pain, and the shutters slam down.
“Is this a pity thing again?” he asks. “Are you going to fuck me out of pity now? Nice of you.”
Those words cut, too. Deeper than some of the previous ones.
“We’ll blame that one on the painkillers,” I finally say, turning to get out of the room. I glance over my shoulder. “Leave the door unlocked. Please?”
He looks at me for a long time before he nods.
The oven timer goes off in the kitchen, and I back away. I take the casserole out and plate it, and when I hear the shower turn on, I listen carefully for any sign of something being out of order, but it doesn’t come. Ryker emerges twenty minutes later, hair wet, dressed in a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt that’s been washed so many times the logo’s mostly worn off.
He seems marginally happier. Or, maybe not happier, but he does look relieved to be in his own clothes and smelling like his own soap. I put a plate in front of him, and he raises his brows at me.
“When did you have time to do all this?”
“It’d be nice to take the credit, but you have to thank Hayes for this. He stocked your fridge with his mom’s cooking.” I grin at him in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. “And I swear, it’s all mostly still there. We only ate the ones that didn’t fit in the freezer.”
His eyes snap up from the plate. Whatever normalcy there was a moment ago, it’s all gone in a flash, leaving only biting hardness behind.
“Date nights with Hayes. How nice for you.”
I blink in total confusion. What the hell?
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He grabs a fork and starts pushing his food around the plate.
“He wants you, you know?”
It’s more of a statement than a question.
“And you can guess that based on…”
“He told me,” he says, challenge ringing out in every syllable.
“Okay. So?” I say slowly.
“So—” He spears a piece of carrot so viciously I’m surprised he doesn’t pierce that fork right through the plate. “—so he’s an option for you,” he says. “Something casual. And fun,” he spits out. Throws the words in my face.
I stare back calmly, my fingers clutching the edge of my own plate.
“That’s… flattering. Too bad I have a boyfriend already. Have you seen, him by the way? He seems to be missing lately.”
“Since when do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.
I hold his gaze. “‘You look me up again, I’ll assume you want to finish what we started.’ I’m here, aren’t I?”
“It doesn’t count when you’re here because you feel sorry for me.”
We eat in silence after that—silence that vibrates with tension I can’t explain and can’t break and can’t wish away because it’s hard like a concrete wall between the two of us.
Ryker looks beat when he pushes the plate away from him.
I start to take it, but he immediately pulls it back.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“I’m perfectly capable of doing my own dishes,” he says. “Unlike my leg, my hands still work.”
