Hey Stupid, I Love You

Bill sighed heavily as he limped toward his front door. Despite the truly abysmal day he'd had at work, he'd rather still be broiling in the summer sun on a roof that nearly did him in, than return home to Zaina's silence. His chest tightened and he rubbed at it. He missed their chat.

A bit of back and forth was something he thrived on. He loved bants, but he also loved any kind of verbal battle. It was stimulating, even if he lost. And he lost often. Not that he minded. He'd lose a hundred arguments just to see her smile.

But lately Zaina no longer indulged in the sweet little bickers that made the days bearable. She'd become withdrawn and easily agitated. Ever since she'd stopped holding his hand and hugging him and curling up against him at night like a silky cat.

He had nothing but unfounded suspicions about what may have changed. She'd become unusually close to that new bouncer at the pub she bartended. The Irish lad. What was his name? Ciaran. Ciaran was so fundamentally different from Bill that she'd commented on it. Oh, he was quiet and sweet and not at all the type to start an argument for fun. That had upset him a bit, he couldn't lie. He didn't start real arguments for fun. It was just silly things that didn't even matter. The fun was in learning about each other, wasn't it?

Even if it had nothing to do with fit Irishmen, somehow, things had still changed and he wasn't a fan of that. Especially when he didn't know why it had happened.

It was driving him mad.

Like a loose tooth, he couldn't stop poking at the why. All day he'd been so distracted with it that he'd stepped carelessly and nearly went arse over kettle from the sagging roof he'd been repairing.

Luckily he'd only twisted his ankle and badly scraped his leg. Still, it scared the absolute pants off his boss Gary, who'd lectured him at the top of his lungs about safety, before he hugged him so hard he likely caused additional injuries, and then muttered that his next few grey hairs all had Bill's name on them.

Despite the circumstances, it was the first hug he'd had in ages, and he almost wanted to cry with happiness. Death didn't scare him nearly as much as a life without hugs.

Taking a calming breath, he opened the front door. "Zai?" he called out. There was no answer. He was both disappointed and relieved that she wasn't there.

Falling into his fixed routine, he hung up his hard hat and safety vest in the closet, and set about stripping off his dirty, sweaty clothing. He dropped it all into the blue laundry basket that was only for his work clothes, and headed for the shower to scrub the day off him. When he emerged and dried himself, he noticed little red spots on the tile floor.

"Dammit," he muttered. The gash on his calf was bleeding again. He patted at it with his towel and searched for bandages but couldn't find any. Great. He shuffled on his shorts, careful to avoid staining them with blood, and headed for the kitchen. There was probably some masking tape in a drawer that he could use to hold a flannel to it.

He rounded the corner and startled. Zaina was sitting at their dining table, umber skin glowing beneath the vintage pendant lights he'd installed just for her.

For a moment, he studied her. She wore no bottoms other than her pants, which wasn't a surprise since she hated trousers and never wore them at home. Her favourite top, the ancient Iron Maiden tee she'd pilfered from her dad long ago, clung to her waist and rolled up at the hem, as it didn't like to stretch over her rather lush hips.

He stepped forward but she didn't seem to notice him. Her forearms were on the table as she twisted a jar of mayonnaise in her hands, spinning it in slow circles, her expression both blank and despairing. He cleared his throat and she turned her head slowly. Her amber eyes were swollen and her thick, fluffy hair was haphazardly thrown into a bun, a sure sign that things weren't alright. The gnarl in his stomach tightened. Moving slowly, he hobbled closer. He ached to touch her, but she'd evaded his every recent attempt, so he kept his hands to himself.