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I miss by a mile and instead hit the water jug. The entire thing goes crashing over, spilling water everywhere.
“Holy fuck,” Nico barks, jumping to his feet in fright as cold water lands in his lap. “Brianna.”
“Sick,” I manage to somehow force out in the panic, still trying to reach for the tray.
“Fuck. Yeah. Shit, Siren.”
He manages to get it in front of me right in time, and I retch unattractively into it. I guess holding my sick bucket is the least of what he owes me at this point.
Barely anything comes up. Hardly a surprise really, seeing as I haven’t eaten anything for… an indefinite amount of time.
“W-what day is it?” I force out after pushing the tray away.
Nico holds it out in front of him, looking utterly terrified, before he gingerly shuffles around the bed to the door in the corner which I assume houses the bathroom.
It’s not until he’s got this back to me, or more so his bare arse, that I register he’s wearing a hospital gown too.
“Sunday,” he says when he slowly walks back.
He hesitates beside me, looking utterly unsure of himself.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it, and I’m not a fan.
I like strong, powerful, in-control-of-everything Nico.
Not this weak, concerned, and confused version.
It’s at odds to almost everything he’s ever tried to show me about himself.
I’m not an idiot. I know that almost everything he’s allowed me to see about him is an act.
He’s only been truly real with me a couple of times over the past few months, but none more so than last week when I went to his flat to tell him about Knight’s Ridge and he broke in front of me.
That one moment is why he’s been so vicious since.
I get it. He’s scared.
Hell, I am too, most of the time, but I’m not so determined to hide it that I push everyone away from me.
His eyes hold mine and I swear I see something, a softness, within them that I’ve never seen before.
I’m so lost in them that I don’t realise he’s moved until he’s right in front of me and his hand is cupping my cheek.
“Siren, I’m so fucking sorry.”
His eyes glitter with moisture that makes my heart skip a beat and my chest ache uncomfortably.
He’s a mess. His nose is covered in an ugly bandage that does little to hide the bruising. Dried blood paints his chin and his neck, his hands too. One of them has a cannula in, which I can only assume is attached to something I’ve failed to notice.
He looks about as broken as I feel.
I’m still drowning in his dark eyes when a door opens and the squeak of someone’s footsteps approaches.
“Whoa, I was not bargaining on walking in on that, Mr. Cirillo,” a soft voice says. “Although I must confess, I’ve seen far worse in this job.”
A weird possessiveness washes through me the second I realise she’s talking about his arse that’s no doubt sticking out of his gown with the way he’s leaning over me. And thankfully, I manage to swallow any comment I have about her checking him out.
I shouldn’t care. I’m here because of his unbearable and unreasonable arse.
