I'm digging through the cabinet for the first aid kit when the door opens behind me.
"I said I'm fine," I snap without turning around.
"You're clearly not fine," Maeve shoots back from behind me. "You're bleeding all over the bathroom."
"I can handle it." I find the kit and set it on the counter, still not looking at her.
"Sean." She moves closer, and I can feel her behind me. "Let me help."
"I don't need help." I'm being an asshole, and I know it, but I can't seem to stop. The jealousy is still churning in my gut, mixing with the pain and frustration until I feel like I might explode.
"Fine." Her voice goes cold. "Bleed out, then. I'll be on the couch with Flynn if you change your mind."
The mention of Flynn's name snaps something in me. I turn so fast it makes my vision swim, and suddenly we're standing inches apart, her eyes wide with surprise at my reaction.
"Don't," I growl, my voice low and dangerous.
"Don't what?" She crosses her arms, glaring at me. "Don't help you? Don't worry about you when you come home covered in blood? Don't exist in the same space as your friend?"
"Don't say his name like that." The words come out before I can stop them, and I see understanding dawn in her expression.
"Like what?" But there's something else in her voice now. Not anger, but curiosity. Confusion, even, as if she truly doesn’t understand what I’m talking about.
"Forget it." I try to turn away, to focus on the first aid kit, but she grabs my arm—the good one, thankfully.
"No. You don't get to do that. I’m tired of you saying things like that to me and then pulling away and waving me off, as if I don’t deserve an explanation as to why you act the way you do. We’re married, Sean, like it or not. And I’m done being walked all over.Youshowed me that I don’t need to be the person who allows that, so you don’t get to keep doing it to me." Her grip tightens. "What the hell is going on?"
"It’s nothing." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"You're a terrible liar when it comes to emotions." She moves even closer, and now I can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her body. "Why would you be jealous of Flynn?"
"I'm not—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"You are. I can see it all over your face." Her eyes search mine, and I feel naked under her gaze. Exposed. It makes me want to pull away even more, withdraw from her until there’s no chance that either of us can hurt the other. "Do you really think I'd—that Flynn and I would?—"
"No." The word comes out harsh, grating. "I know you wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. But seeing you with him, seeing you laugh with him like that, so easy and comfortable..." I close my eyes, unable to look at her while I admit this. "You've never been that relaxed with me."
There's a long moment of silence, and when I finally force myself to open my eyes, I'm shocked to see that Maeve looks like she's fighting not to laugh.
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny." She looks at me as if I’m a fucking idiot, shaking her head. "Sean, I was helping Flynn pick out a gift for Gia."
I blink. "What?"
"Gia. The woman he met at the gala. The one he hasn't stopped talking about for the past week." She’s still giving me that look. "He wanted advice on what to get her, and I was helping him look at jewelry options. That's what we were laughing about—he kept freaking out about what jewelry for a woman like that costs.”
The jealousy that had been consuming me deflates so quickly it's almost embarrassing. "Oh."
"Oh," she echoes. "Sean, do you really think I want Flynn?”
"I wasn't thinking clearly." I run a hand through my hair, wincing when the motion pulls at my injuries. "I came back, and you were together, and you looked so happy, and I just..."
"Sit," she says, and there's no room for argument in her voice. "Let me clean you up."
There’s something different in her voice. A flicker of confidence that I’ve never heard before, and it’s part of what breaks my resolve to keep her out of this. I sink down onto the edge of the closed toilet lid, and she moves between my legs, first aid kit in hand. She works in silence for a moment, cleaning the cut above my eyebrow with gentle, small dabs of an alcohol pad that burns like hell, and I watch her face as she concentrates. There's a small furrow between her brows, her teeth worrying her lower lip, and she's so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"This is going to sting," she warns before pressing an antiseptic-soaked pad to a scrape on my shoulder.
