A frame slightly crooked.
A scuff against the wall.
A reminder of how much he needed that release.
How much we both did.
My gaze drops briefly to the dust on the floor before I shake it off, moving toward the bathroom to grab what I need.
When I come back, he’s awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head slightly bowed, his injured arm resting against his thigh as he studies it.
There’s dried blood along the edge of the bandage.
“Elijah.”
He looks up immediately.
“You should still be in bed,” he says quietly.
“And you shouldn’t be pretending that’s fine.”
I cross the room before he can argue, setting everything down and stepping between his knees.
“Let me see.”
“It’s just a graze.”
“Elijah.”
He exhales through his nose, but he doesn’t fight me.
“Alright.”
I carefully peel back his shirt, my fingers gentle as I clean it properly. It’s not deep, but it’s enough that it needs attention.
“You got lucky,” I murmur.
His gaze stays on me.
“I don’t rely on luck.”
“No,” I say softly, rewrapping it, smoothing the bandage into place. “You rely on being stubborn.”
A quiet huff of breath leaves him, almost a laugh.
“Something like that.”
My fingers linger against his arm for a second longer than necessary. Then his hand moves, settling against my thigh. Warm. Solid. Grounding.
“Sit with me,” he murmurs.
I don’t hesitate as I lean against him, absorbing his warmth.
The moment stretches, quiet, steady, until the sound of movement breaks it.
“Jesus,” Jackson’s voice mutters from the doorway. “Do you two ever fuck like normal people?”
I glance over my shoulder.
