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He was here just a couple of nights ago, going through more training with me. I finally got the hang of several of the moves he’s taught me.
I’m going to be a badass pretty soon.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snip, though the heat is missing. It’s almost like I’m feeling actual concern right now.
I raise a hand to my forehead and feel for any warmth. I must have a fever and be delirious from the sickness.
He steps from the shadows and comes closer. My body locks as he trudges to the bed and sits down on the edge. It’s not unusual to see his muscles straining against his clothing. I think he purposely shops for shirts and hoodies two sizes too small. But right now, his body looks rigid, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders appear bunched up.
“Just tired today,” he says quietly.
I frown harder, not liking this side of Zade. Or rather, not liking how much it bothers me seeing this side of him.
A battle renders me frozen as I try to decide what to do. Kick him out of my house, attitude be damned. Or pry into his odd behavior and show him that I just might care.
His head rolls, cracking his bones and making me cringe from the disturbingly grotesque noises.
“You uh, gotta lot of tension going on there, buddy,” I say, awkwardness dripping from the words. That makes me cringe harder.
He huffs out a laugh, but the amusement is missing.
Sighing, I relent and push the covers back. With great reluctance, I crawl towards Zade and kneel behind him. His body tenses, and I never thought I’d see Zade wary of me.
That concerns me more than anything.
“Take this off,” I demand softly, plucking at his hoodie. His head turns, presenting me with his side profile.
Very few people have attractive side profiles. That’s something that most people just don’t possess. But Zade looks beautiful, no matter what direction you look at him from.
“Why?” he asks, his tone flat.
Bristling, I open my mouth and begin to snap something at him. I’m trying to be nice, and he’s actually being difficult when this is already hard enough as it is. What’s that saying, don’t bite the hand that feeds you?
But I stop myself, the harsh words dangling from the tip of my tongue before falling to their death. This isn’t about me and how I feel, getting defensive isn’t going to solve anything. It’ll only result in making him feel worse and probably end up leaving. And oddly, that would just serve to make me feel like shit.
It shouldn’t. But it would.
“Because it would make things easier for me,” I say softly.
He opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say fell to its own death alongside my defensive words.
Relenting, he grabs his hoodie from behind his shoulders and pulls it over his head, dragging up his white t-shirt. I see a glimpse of an elaborate tattoo before his shirt falls back down.
He doesn’t say anything, just rests his elbows on his spread knees.
Balancing my butt on my heels, I blow out a breath and start kneading his shoulder muscles. It feels like pressing my knuckles into a boulder.
“Jesus,” I mutter, pressing harder. He groans deeply, his head dropping low between his shoulders as I dig at the knots polluting his muscles.
We don’t speak. Not for a little while. My hands grow tired, but I don’t complain, nor do I stop. Slowly, he relaxes beneath my touch, his muscles beginning to loosen beneath my persistent fingers.
“Tell me,” I whisper, attacking a particularly brutal knot that pulls a groan from deep in his chest.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I can feel the internal battle from outside his flesh and bones.
“I lost a young girl today,” he confesses, his voice hoarse and uneven.
I swallow, sadness spearing deep in my chest. He pauses, and I don’t speak. Letting him find the words at his own pace.
