“Sloan,” he says at the same time I push my sunglasses up, worry bleeding into my voice when I ask, “Are you okay?”
His brow furrows, but I point uselessly to the spray bottle in his hand, and realization dawns across his features, beautiful and sleepy in the morning sunlight, every muscle in his body tensing and rippling unfairly.
“Zolmitriptan.” He holds it up, and the obliques stacked along his side tighten.
“Oh.” I blink. That’s not what I meant—I could name all of his medications without even having to think about it, and I certainly know which one he needs to shove up his nose. “Is your head okay?”
Bohdan nods, pocketing the bottle in a pair of black athletic shorts that sit two inches above his knees.
Those aren’t fair either.
He scrubs his face before answering. “Yeah. It’s coming down ... I just took it to take the edge off. Feels almost like a regular headache now.”
“Do you even remember what one of those is like?” I tip my head, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
He snorts, lips tugging in a rueful smile. “No.”
I nod softly, and he does the same. We don’t look away, even though this awful silence permeates every inch of distance of the trench he dug between us that doesn’t really belong.
Bohdan clears his throat and hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I can go. I didn’t realize you stayed onboard today.”
“Onboard,” I repeat, rolling my eyes, and he smiles. It makes my lungs fuller than it should. But I whisper, pointing towards the lounge chair beside me anyway, “No. Stay.”
I hate the thought of him being in pain alone more than I hate the thought of being alone here with him.
He tips his chin towards the porcelain mug with the cruise emblem stamped on it. “Can I get you another coffee?”
“Oh.” I blink. “Sure. Just—”
“Three small splashes of milk, and the tiniest bit of sugar.” He arches a brow, voice incredulous. “I didn’t forget your coffee order, Sloan.”
I’m careful not to brush my fingers against his when I hand him the mug. I don’t look at him at all, I watch the passengers file off the ship and become tiny dots when they move through the port terminal.
I don’t want to see him reach out with those hands that I thought would hold me for the rest of my life, how they’ll wrap around a mug of coffee so he can get me another because he didn’t forget how I like it.
It’s a simple thing that shouldn’t be sad at all, but the first tear splashes on my thigh, right beside the frays of denim from my shorts brushing my skin.
I wipe a finger across my lash line with a shaky inhale when the mug reappears.
“Sloan ... why are you crying?”
I hear the scrape of the chair, Bohdan dragging his closer to mine, and he leans in, a wave of amber hair tumbling onto his forehead.
“It’s sad,” I whisper, hands wrapping around the mug of coffee and my finger tapping against the porcelain rim.
He looks like he might want to reach forward, to stop me before I can start counting, but he exhales, palming his jaw. “What’s sad?”
“Nothing.” I sniff, taking a small sip. “You’re just a stranger getting me coffee.”
Bohdan says nothing, silent again, and I wonder if he sees it between us—that yawning trench full of awful things, casualties of the war between his brain and mine.
He must, because he gives his head a slow shake and whispers roughly, “I’m sorry.”
More tears roll down my cheeks, splashing against my legs, and I think a few even make their way into my coffee. “No, I’m sorry. I set these stupid rules and I can’t even follow them. Strike one for me. I guess we’re even.”
He’s not sorry for the same things I am, but I’m sorry all the same.
I try to smile when I hold up a finger, but I start crying harder. Bohdan looks like he’s in physical pain, scrubbing his face instead of touching me the way I know he wants to.
