The Night Vigilante

VIII. Grace

VIII.Grace

            I wish my mom had a self help book on the topic the boy I’ve had a crush on for years is suddenly in my bedroom, what to do?

            Scanning through our massive bookcase lining the living room wall, the titles range from how to be happier to how to get over grief to how to make fried tomatoes.

            My house was like a mini library in itself.

            Grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink, I take a shaky breath and sprint back up the stairs.

            Hesitating by my door- unsure if I should knock- I nudge it open with my foot.

            He stands by my glass sliding door looking out into the dark illuminated city.

            I stand there for a moment, taking in his tall, lean figure.

            His raven black hair hangs a bit over his eyes, his chiseled face scrunched in concentration.

            I clear my throat and he turns around quickly, a small smile on his lips.

            “I um,” I fumble with my words. “I should probably change your bandages.”

            “I can do it myself if you want,” he murmurs, trying to catch my eyes, being extra careful not to hint to his super abnormal healing.

            I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself down. I was making him think I was scared of him.

            “N-no, it’s not that it’s just….” I trail off, not really knowing how to bring up the fact that after so many years, he’s right here in front of me, so I settle with, “I owe you.”

            Cole doesn’t say anything as he perches himself on the edge of my bed to pull off his shirt.

            Keeping my eyes strictly on course for just patching up his wound, I sit beside him as he leans back on his arms.

            “Sorry my hands are so cold,” I apologize, prying open the package.

            He laughs lightly, the sound oddly welcoming in this dark room. “I would be worried if I couldn’t take a little cold after everything I’ve been through.”

            “So this happens on a regular basis?” I ask wryly.

            “I guess you can put it that way,” he says, wincing when I press the cotton swab a little too hard. It wasn’t every day you treated a wounded superhero.

            I press my lips, choosing not to say anything as I focus wholly on fixing his nearly healed wound

            Where a raw, gory blood wound once was yesterday, there was only pink, sensitive skin with a shallow cut.

            Gently running the tip of my finger against the pink skin, I feel Cole inhale sharply.

            It was inhuman-the way he healed so quickly.

            -but super fast healing wasn’t the only inhuman trait he seemed to have if my memory served me correct.

            Somewhere in the haze of my memory, the boy that had picked me up years ago  had somehow managed to carry me to the hospital miles away in the dead of night within five minutes.