What Doesn't Kill You

Chapter 5

He knew. I could see it in his stance in the way he cocked his head when he looked at me. He knew what I had been doing and who I had been thinking about. He moved closer. That's when I noticed he was dragging his feet. He moved so slowly that I felt my insides tingle with impatience...and worry.

"Why are you walking like that?" I asked.

Kicking myself internally for allowing my emotions to show. Where had all my stoic disregard gone?

"Worried about me?" He asked emotionless.

Trust him to make me regret feeling anything. I could feel a scowl contort my face. It took some effort to school my expression. The deep breath I had to take to cleanse myself of my desire for him worked well enough. I no longer felt such an overwhelming longing for him.

I watched him sink onto the bed next to me. It was too deliberate. It was only because I was staring so intently that I noticed the wince of pain moments before he settled. I automatically moved towards him, wanting to comfort him. Forgetting for a moment that it was probably the last thing he wanted.

"You're hurt." It was a statement, not a question.

"I've been worse," he said softly the casual shrug inviting another wince.

"Turn on the light," I told him, hoping he wouldn't have something snarky to say about being given an order.

There was just enough light from the setting sun to see his form but I wanted the details. I know it mattered even though I couldn't say why.

He hesitated and I wondered if it was because he was more injured than I had previously thought. When the warm light from the bedside lamp filled the room after his gentle exertion, the sight of him made me gasp.

He had a black eye and tape over his right brow. His other cheek was dark red. The swelling had distorted his face. I could see bruises on his neck; someone's handprint was very clear in the four finger-marks that coloured his skin like overzealous hickeys.

"What happened?"

"You're cute when you worry."

He looked at me, his eyes just as unreadable as always. It always amazed me how easy it was for him to hide his emotions. Sometimes I envied that ability. Other times, I wanted to punch him in the face. My disgust was absolute with myself for caring—with him for making it seem like a flaw in my character. With some effort I got him to move so that I could get out of bed.

"Lie down," I instructed.

I didn't wait to see if he followed my instructions. I walked to the bathroom in search of the first aid kit. I stumbled over the threshold on my way back to him, grasping at the door frame for support, winded by the unpleasant reminder that I still wasn't fully healed. I got back to him. Our positions reversed as he leaned back against the headboard and I sat next to him.

"That's not necessary," he said, pushing me off when I tried to get a better look at his injuries.

I ignored him. Punching the hot compress until it was fully activated. I slapped it across his face. Intentionally harsh just to give back a little of what he was happy to dish out.

"You need to get the swelling down. You know as well as I do that the bruising will hurt less."

He held the heat pack to his face and I notice that his knuckles were bandaged. Someone had taken the time to care for him. So, why was he here? I felt foolish for imagining that I was the reason. Yet I couldn't think of any other.

"Are you going to tell me where you were? What happened? Who did this?"

"Why do you care?"

There were one thousand and one responses on the tip of my tongue. Each of them was just as harsh as his. But I was tired. My body hurt, my heart hurt—for him and myself. Instead of giving in to the anger, I tried for honesty.

"Because I missed you."

He let out that derisive chuckle I was all too familiar with. I turned away from him ready to walk out of my room. I didn't expect him to lean forward and pull me back. I definitely didn't expect him to place a gentle kiss on the side of my mouth.

My gasp was loud in the quiet room. His actions, were too unexpected for me to have a measured response. I looked up at him questioningly only for him to do it again. Closer to the centre, like an invitation to join him. I wanted that so much but his bruises had to hurt. I didn't want to be the cause of any more pain for him ever again. When he tried to kiss me a third time, I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back.

"Stop. You need to rest," I said hoping he'd hear me. "If you don't want to tell me about it, that's fine. But I worry about you. Could you try not to get yourself killed?"

I helped him lie back down on the soft pillows—plumping them up for him. Tucking him in, I kissed his forehead to reassure us both that I wasn't going anywhere. I turned off the bedside lamp, walked around the bed carefully and slip in next to him.

Instinct said I should stay on my side but he turned towards me. I scooted over. Intentionally brushing my hand against his. Willing myself not to do more and yet unable to stop when he put his head on my shoulder. I brushed his hair and pulled him closer.

I held him.
Whether it was because he needed me to or he was done fighting me and whatever else was between us, he held me back.