Hell, from what I’ve seen, he hasn’t so much as looked at his phone from the moment I walked back into his room at the hospital, only Damon trailing me.
His eyes?—
Damn, but looking into his eyes had hurt.
Resignation and yearning and pain—so much pain.
I tried to talk to him, but he just brushed me off and went to sleep.
And then Damon had all but carried me out of there and back to the hotel, getting food in me and ordering me to sleep.
Something I only allowed because he promised to go back and sit with Colt.
Which he did, though Colt slept most of the night and was near-silent the rest of it.
This morning, he was still quiet, still not himself, but I figured that was because he was getting the hell out of the hospital.
But he spent the entire flight—Damon having arranged a plane to transport us home and then himself on to join the team afterward—raw-dogging it. No phone. No book. Nothing except his gaze trained outside the window.
Talking only when asked a direct question—like when the police interviewed him before the plane took off.
That interaction was bare facts recited, and short, considering he didn’t see the blow, can’t remember it, and the entire freaking thing was caught on camera and witnessed by twenty-thousand-plus people.
Now, after a silent car ride, he’s doing his best to push me away.
“I am fine,” he mutters after I’ve steadied him.
“Like I said”—leaving him only long enough to shove his key into the lock, to push open the front door—“I know.”
“Then why are you still here?”
I freeze as that lashes through me, a sharp bite of pain.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shoving his free hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”
“I know.” I tilt my head to the house, pushing down the hurt, knowing he’s wrapped up in a tangle of complicated emotions. “Let’s get you settled.”
His eyes hold mine, and he reaches over, cups my jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a shitty couple of days.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”
“Come on,” I say, taking his good hand in mine and drawing him forward. “No sense arguing about it on your porch.”
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it, allowing me to bring him into the house.
Relief loosens my lungs and I guide him to the couch, leaving him only long enough to grab our things from the car and lock up.
“You hungry?” I call as I line up his medications on the counter. “Doc should be coming by in a half-hour to check in on you.”
“I’m fine,” he calls back.
“For the food?” I poke my head into the family room, see him reclined back on the couch, his eyes closed. “Or the checkup by Doc?”
Those eyes open, fix on me. “Do I have a choice?” A beat. “For either?”
