And I watch him melt, same as I had.
“Mostly because Colt is rather wonderful, as you know.”
Blake’s gaze sparkles with humor. “He’s pretty cool for an old dude.”
“You’re only a couple years younger than me, asshole.” My headache is getting worse and I close my eyes for a second.
But when I open them, the lights seem brighter, more intense, and the pain ratchets up.
“A couple matters,” Blake says, though it’s quieter, as though he can sense that I’m fading. “And it’s six, remember?”
And hell, him having been through far worse than this far too many times, he probably can.
“Maybe we should go grab a bite to eat,” Kylie says. “My brother went to get the nurse, so they’ll be back soon and I think Colt needs to get some rest.”
“Yes, he does,” my mom interjects. “And Blake needs to get home and rest himself. The journey really takes it out of him.”
It’s an accusation.
Kylie feels it, stiffening at my side.
Blake feels it too, his eyes going icy cold.
But it’s one that no one gets to address.
Because there’s a perfunctory knock on the door and then a woman in a lab coat is there, Damon trailing her.
She looks around the room, expression unreadable.
Then it comes to me and she orders,
“Everyone out.”
Twenty-Seven
Ky
“Easy,” I say the next day as we navigate the couple of steps up to Colt’s front door, my arm around his waist.
“I’m fine,” he says even as he wavers on his feet, exhausted from the flight, from his injuries and his night in the hospital, from the discharge procedures, from the car ride here to his house.
“Yup, you’re fine,” I agree, having dealt with Damon enough when he’s in this mood to know Colt is spouting bullshit. He’s hurting and tired and grumpy about not being able to do what he wants to do when he wants to do it…and that includes climbing stairs on his own.
And I know he’s not just hurting from his injuries—though, he’d be hard-pressed to admit that.
He’s hurting because of his fucking family.
No. Not his whole family.
His parents.
Who didn’t stay after we were herded out of the room so the doctor could do her exam, who didn’t allow Blake to stay—as in, his mom brushed his hand away from the wheelchair controls and took over, directing it out of the hospital.
Blake had texted me on the ride home. And last night. And this morning.
He’d also texted Colt.
But Colt isn’t himself, and as far as I know, he hasn’t texted back.
