FINDING 12 | BOYS OF TOMMEN

hurt.

April 11th 2002

The late afternoon light streamed through the small window in Connor's kitchen, casting a warm glow on the countertops cluttered with ingredients. We were making pasta from scratch—well, trying to, at least. Flour covered the surface, the floor, and even my face at one point, after Connor had laughed and smeared a streak of it across my cheek. Days like this were my favorite: just the two of us, relaxed and messing around. No pressure, no outside world—just us.

"Okay, I swear this dough is cursed," I said, frowning as I kneaded the sticky mess on the counter. "Are we sure we didn't skip a step?"

Connor was next to me, rolling out his half of the dough. He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he worked the rolling pin like he'd done it a hundred times before. "You're just not putting enough muscle into it. Here, let me help." He moved closer, his hands pressing down over mine, his touch firm yet playful. The weight of his hands, the closeness—it all felt so easy, so natural. It made me smile.

"Maybe you should just do it," I teased, stepping back to give him space. "Mr. Perfect Chef."

He flashed me a grin, then took over, putting his full weight into the dough, rolling it out smoothly. I leaned against the counter, watching him. We were in sync again, laughing, joking. It felt right. Like we were untouchable.

"You're pretty handy with that rolling pin," I teased, grabbing a piece of flour-covered basil and flicking it at him. It landed on his shoulder, a little green speck amidst the flour. He stopped mid-roll, his eyebrows raised, the tension rising in his face for just a second too long.

"Really?" he said, his tone light but there was an edge, barely noticeable, creeping in. I could see a smile tugging at his lips, so I didn't think much of it.

"Just saying," I laughed, brushing it off. "You missed a spot."

Without warning, Connor grabbed a handful of flour and flung it at me, hitting my chest with a puff of white dust. I gasped, half-shocked, half-laughing. "Hey!"

"Oh, you started this," he said, his eyes gleaming with a playful intensity that felt sharper than before.

I retaliated, grabbing a fistful of flour and tossing it back at him. He dodged, but some of it caught his arm. Something in his face flickered, his playful grin fading, replaced with something harder. Before I could react, he grabbed me by the waist, pulling me toward him with enough force that I stumbled into him, my breath catching.

"Connor!" I laughed, trying to twist away, but his hold tightened. It wasn't playful anymore.

In an instant, his elbow jabbed into my ribs—hard. The pain was sharp, cutting through the laughter. I gasped, freezing for a second as I tried to process what had just happened.

"Ow!" I said, more confused than anything, trying to pull back. "Connor, that hurt."

He didn't let go right away. His eyes locked onto mine, cold and hard, and for a split second, I wasn't sure if I should move. Then, finally, he released me, stepping back. But instead of the concern I expected, his face twisted into annoyance.

"Oh, come on, Blair," he muttered, wiping his hands on a towel with a careless shrug. "Don't be so dramatic."

I blinked, rubbing my side where the pain still throbbed. "I'm not being dramatic. You really elbowed me." The disbelief in my voice was evident. Why was he acting like this?

He glanced at me, his eyes narrowing. "I barely touched you," he said, his tone flat. "Stop acting like I hit you or something. You're always so sensitive about this kind of stuff."

I stared at him, my chest tightening. You did hit me. But when I opened my mouth to say it, the words felt small, fragile. "You did hit me," I whispered.

Connor let out a sharp sigh, his hands going to his hips as he looked at me like I was an inconvenience. "You're blowing this way out of proportion, Blair. It was an accident, okay? You were in the way, and I was just trying to move. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

The way he said it—so dismissive, like it was my fault—made me second-guess myself. The pain still lingered in my ribs, but his words tangled in my head. Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe it was an accident.

"I'm just saying, it hurt," I said quietly, trying to hold on to what felt real.

"And I said I'm sorry," he snapped, though his eyes hadn't softened. He hadn't actually apologized yet, not really. He looked down at me, his gaze sharp. "Why do you always have to make things bigger than they are? You know how I get when we're messing around. It wasn't on purpose. Can you stop turning everything into a problem?"

Suddenly, the warm kitchen felt colder. The sunlight streaming through the window didn't feel comforting anymore, just harsh. I wanted to let it go, to smooth things over and get back to how we were. But something inside me wouldn't let it drop.

"I'm not turning it into a problem," I said, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "You just—"

"I said I'm sorry,"he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice softened, but the impatience still lingered underneath. "You know I didn't mean to. You were in the way. I didn't even know you were that close, babe. You've got to relax. You're making me feel like a monster."

My heart squeezed at his words. I wasn't trying to make him feel bad, I wasn't. But the way he said it, like I was attacking him, like I was making him into something he wasn't, it made me feel guilty—like maybe I was the one overreacting.

Like always.

"I know," I murmured, my voice small. "I didn't mean to... I just—"

"I love you," he said, cutting me off again, pulling me into his arms. His voice was soft now, the tenderness I craved threading through his words. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, okay? I didn't mean to. You're making me feel terrible here."

The guilt washed over me, heavy and suffocating. I hated this feeling, like I was being unreasonable for reacting the way I did. "I know," I whispered. "I'm sorry too."

Connor pulled back just enough to look down at me, his hands resting on my shoulders. He smiled, but the tension in my ribs reminded me that something was still wrong. "We're good, right?"

I nodded, forcing a smile of my own. "Yeah, we're good."

"Good," he said, kissing my forehead before turning back to the counter. "Let's finish this pasta. I'm starving."

He went back to rolling the dough like nothing had happened, humming softly. I stayed where I was for a moment, my hand still resting against my sore ribs, trying to shake off the weird feeling gnawing at me.

It was fine. We were fine. I just needed to stop overthinking everything.

But as I stood there, watching him move around the kitchen, the weight in my chest grew heavier, and a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that maybe I wasn't overthinking it at all.