Foreigner

Chapter 27

The door slams shut behind us.

Christian doesn't say a word. He just kicks off his shoes, crosses the room in two strides, and yanks open the closet. I watch from the desk chair, my arms hanging loose at my sides. The adrenaline's long gone, and in its place is a dull, throbbing ache in my shoulder and jaw. My knuckles are scraped raw. There's blood on my sleeve, and I'm not sure if it's mine or Alex's. Probably both.

Christian rifles through the closet and curses under his breath. Then he disappears into the hallway.

I don't move.

The dorm feels warped around the edges like I'm underwater. Every sound is muffled—distant footsteps, a door creaking somewhere down the hall. My fingers tap rhythmically against my knee, even though I don't remember starting. There's a smear of dried blood on my palm that looks almost like a fingerprint.

I blink at it. Then I blink again.

Christian returns three minutes later, carrying a first aid kit and a frozen bag of peas, of all things. His hair is wind-blown, his shirt damp.

Is it raining?

He slams the door shut behind him and locks it, before turning to look at me, numb on the desk chair.

"You're sitting there?" he mutters, almost more to himself than to me.

I shrug. "Didn't want to bleed on your bed."

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't even crack a smile. Just kneels in front of me and snaps the kit open. I watch his hands move—methodical, careful, like he's trying to focus on the steps. Disinfectant. Gauze. Ice. He opens a small packet of antiseptic and dabs at my cheek.

"Christ," he mutters again. "How hard did he hit you?"

I don't answer. My gaze drifts past him, toward the rain-streaked window. The ceiling lights flicker once. He presses the bag of peas gently against my cheek, then tapes gauze to my knuckles with a gentleness I don't understand.

It's quiet. Unnaturally so.

His hands brush mine, lingering for just a second too long.

And for the first time in hours, I feel something in my chest that isn't just static.

Christian finishes taping up my last knuckle, brushing away the edge of the gauze like it's a piece of lint. Then he stands without a word and clicks the first aid kit shut.

"Try not to bleed from everywhere next time," he mutters, carrying the box across the room.

"I make no promises," I shoot back, voice still a little hoarse.

He walks to the closet again, tucks the kit away on the top shelf like it belongs there. While he's busy organizing whatever tragic chaos lives in there, I glance toward the desk. One of the drawers is cracked open. A notebook sits half-open on the edge, like it had been tossed aside in a hurry.

I lean over and tug it free, flipping the cover.

My brain short-circuits.

The first page is a pencil sketch. Me, hunched over my painting in art class, tongue poking slightly out the side of my mouth in concentration. The brush is poised in my fingers. Even the shadows on my neck are perfect.

I flip to the next page.

Me, mid-jump shot. Me, laughing at something. Me, asleep, head tipped toward the dorm window. There's even one of me stretching on the court, muscles flexed just slightly more than necessary.

"What is this?" I ask, voice somewhere between amused and stunned.

Christian freezes. He is still in front of the closet, his hand on the door, and his face ever so slightly shocked. He tracks my movements as I stand up, taking a few steps closer to my roommate.