Broken Hands

46. No Trust

The hospital lobby hummed with the muffled sounds of pagers and low conversations. Its stark white walls and antiseptic smell were as unwelcoming as ever, but Grayson had grown used to places like this. He slouched in a rigid plastic chair, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. Damien sat beside him, scrolling through his phone, his posture as composed as ever. Grayson envied his unshakable calm.

"Grayson Smith," a nurse called, her voice clipped but polite.

Grayson stood, his movements slow and deliberate, and Damien rose with him. Together, they followed the nurse down a hallway bathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent lights.

Dr. Kelly greeted them in the examination room, her familiar warmth softening the clinical atmosphere. She had been the family doctor for years, and while Grayson usually found comfort in her presence, today, the weight of Damien's gaze in the corner of the room made his skin prickle.

"Grayson," Dr. Kelly began, her voice both kind and probing, "what happened this time?"

He lowered himself on the examination table, avoiding Damien's eyes. "Not a big deal," he replied evenly. "I tripped and hit a locker."

Dr. Kelly arched an eyebrow, her skepticism plain as she stepped closer to inspect him. "Not a big deal, huh?" she repeated, peeling back the bandage on his nose with gentle precision. The cool air stung, and Grayson stilled.

"From what I'm seeing, you had quite the fall," she remarked, her tone neutral but edged with curiosity.

"It happens," Grayson muttered, fixing his gaze on a garish poster about the dangers of untreated infections.

Dr. Kelly glanced at Damien, who gave her a subtle nod. Her hands moved methodically as she examined the bruising and swelling. "Hmm," she murmured, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Bruised cartilage, some minor displacement. No fracture, though. You're lucky."

Lucky wasn't the word Grayson would've chosen. Slamming your face into a locker didn't feel like any kind of fortune. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, but Dr. Kelly caught his bored expression and smirked.

"How have your eating habits improved?" She asked.

Grayson swallowed, not daring to glance at Damien, "Good."

Kelly stared at him but nodded, "Just checking, I wouldn't want to put you on medication with a poor eating habit. Grayson nodded.

"Don't let me bore you, Grayson," she teased lightly, stepping back to wash her hands. "Keep icing it for the next few days, and I'll prescribe some anti-inflammatory meds for the swelling. You've got a high pain tolerance—most people would be screaming by now. But..." She paused, meeting his gaze with a seriousness that made him uncomfortable. "You need to be more careful. Hitting lockers isn't exactly a healthy habit."

Damien's voice cut through the room, calm but firm. "You're sure it's nothing serious?"

Dr. Kelly turned to him, nodding. "Nothing serious. But if the swelling persists or he has trouble breathing, bring him back immediately."

Grayson exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thanks, Dr. Kelly."

She smiled warmly. "Anytime. But if I see you back here again, I'm going to start questioning your coordination."

Grayson flashed a smile as they left the room. As they walked back through the sterile hallways, the tension that had briefly eased began to creep back. Damien's silence was louder than any lecture. Grayson knew he didn't believe the story. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but how could he explain it? How could he admit that Stephen and his gang were relentless? That he let it happen?