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And then I forced myself to drive to the nearest grocery store and walk down the aisles like a normal person, picking out cream and cheese and noodles and pea-protein sausage and regular sausage and mushrooms and bread and all the other shit I could think of for alfredo pasta, garlic bread, and peanut butter brownie sundaes.
And then more bread and cheese and some ham and tomato soup and some chicken noodle and oyster crackers because I figured Taavi probably wasn’t going to feel much like leaving the house tomorrow, either.
Been there, felt that.
Of course, I’d only had the shit kicked out of me by some MFM protestors’ fists—I hadn’t been hit by a goddamn truck.
I grabbed some bacon, eggs, Canadian bacon, English muffins, and extra ice cream. And then some walnuts and chocolate chips for cookies.
And a half dozen frozen pizzas.
It was obviously way too much food.
I didn’t care. Food in my family was love. So, God help me, I was going to feed Taavi until he understood that.
It might take a while, given how much I had to make up for.
I was okay with that.
I just hoped he forgave me eventually.
The shower was running when I got back to his apartment, and I contemplated going over to the tiny bathroom to see if he was okay… but then decided that might seem creepy. Or maybe I should let him know I was back so he didn’t freak the fuck out when he came out of the bathroom. Or maybe he wanted to be left alone…
Fuck.
I put away the groceries, then walked over to the bathroom and promptly discovered that Taavi hadn’t closed the bathroom door.
The shower curtain was drawn, of course, but I felt a flush creep up the side of my neck and suffuse my ears with blood, anyway, because now I couldn’t stop thinking about Taavi naked and under the spray of the shower.
Which waswildlyinappropriate, given that he’d just been hit by a fucking truck. The last thing he needed—well, maybe not thelast, but certainly not high on the list—was me being a horny jerk.
I stopped outside the door. “Taavi?”
He was silent for longer than I was comfortable with, and I had one foot ready to go in there and see if he was still conscious when he replied.
“Can you—” Then he stopped.
“What do you need?” I asked him.
“I think—I think my arm might be broken.”
“Taavi—”
“Can you—help me? And… I think we should go to the ER.”
“Fuck. Yes. Of course.”
Adrenaline surged through my system. But at least I had something I coulddo.
I stepped into the bathroom, walking up to the curtain. “Can I open this?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
When I pushed it back, he was sitting on the floor of the tub, his untattooed arm cradled against his body, legs crossed in front of him.
Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, I couldn’t help but admire the wiry muscle of his legs and the smooth shape of his back and shoulders, the sharp lines of bone and the complex pattern of the dark tattoo on his skin.
He looked up at me, his face a mask of pain and embarrassment.
