Page 111 of Healing Eleanor

Clutching the makeshift weapon, I creep toward the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. I take one deep breath and yank the door open.

Nik.

He’s sprawled across the threshold, groaning and looking like a complete mess.

My stomach lurches. “Nik?”

I flick on the kitchen light, setting the feather duster on the counter as the harsh glow spills over him.

He squints and rubs his head, heavy with exhaustion.

“Noah, the ark, and the giraffes,” he mumbles, slurring as he tries—and fails—to sit up.

I blink at him, incredulous. “The… giraffes?”

One bloodshot eye cracks open, and he gives me a look like I’m the one not making sense. “Yes, Eleanor. You try fitting those things on a boat and tell me they’re not important.”

My brain stalls, trying to reconcile what I’m seeing. “Are you okay?”

I want to smack myself for stating the obvious. Of course he isn’t okay. He’s sprawled half-conscious in my doorway at one in the morning. Still… What else am I supposed to say?

“Peachy. Clearly,” he slurs, attempting a smirk that falls flat.

My breath hitches. “Are… are you drunk?”

I remember him telling me that he had a drinking problem long ago. That it’s behind him now. A sharp pain stabs through my chest seeing him like this. What could have pushed him back here? Irina? The memory of her collapsing earlier still makes my heart race. If I was shaken, then what was it like for him?

“Don’t remind me,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face.

Yep. Totally drunk.

He hiccups. “Do—do you think I could come inside? Half of me is frozen.” He chuckles at himself like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

I peek my head out the door. Snowflakes float down in delicate spirals, already frosting the railing. “Oh—shoot—of course. Can you get up?”

He makes an attempt. Fails. Tries again and fails even harder. Each time he collapses back against the floorboards, he laughs like a kid who’s just discovered slapstick comedy.

I crouch beside him. “Here, I’ll drag you in. Lift your arms.”

He snorts, eyes squinting at me like I’m some great joke. “Are you sure, Elenochka? I might be too heavy for you.”

“Do you have any other options?” I arch my brow. “Now come on, I’m freezing here.”

That sobers him. His smile slips, and he gives a small nod before lifting his arms like an obedient child.

I hook my hands under his armpits and haul with all the strength I can muster—which isn’t much. He’s heavy. Over six feet of dead weight slumps against me like a bag of rocks. Honestly, it’s like trying to wrestle my old mattress onto my bed when I was sixteen. Only the mattress never laughed in my ear while I did it.

After a few egregious attempts, I finally manage to haul Nik fully into my apartment. I kick the door shut behind me, sealing the freezing night air where it belongs.

When I turn back, he’s a heap on my floor, his head lolling to the side, limbs sprawled out like he’s just fallen from the sky.

Then it hits me that I’m standing here in my favorite cotton pajamas—the soft ones I always reach for because they’re comfortable but… not exactly modest. My coach—of all people—is laying on my floor, and I’m practically indecent by my own standards. My stomach flips. I bolt to the bathroom, grab my robe, and cinch it tight before reemerging.

Nik hasn’t moved an inch. Still faceup, still out of it, and still taking up half my living room like an abandoned rag doll.

I hover for a moment, arms folded. What on earth am I supposed to do with him? Ask him what happened? Part of me wants to demand answers, like why he’s here, why he’s like this… but another part of me knows that will only make things worse. He’s not sober enough to explain anything tonight anyway.

I crouch down beside him and start fumbling with the laces on his shoes. For some reason, they’re tied so tight it’s like he thinks they might fly off with a single step. After a few sharp yanks, a boyish laugh bubbles out of his lips.