It’s art, the canvas, his beautifully sculpted pec.
A thin line runs from the raven to a small circle on his neck that looks like it sits over his jugular.
But when I reach his eyes, all I see is concern and worry. “Don’t move, sweetheart.”
The use of the endearment catches me off guard.
He moves to the door and grabs his thick biker boots and slips them on without socks. Then, he returns to me, stompingover the shattered mug like it doesn’t matter and lifts me off the ground.
The cool marble of the kitchen counter is cool when he places me on it.
Finally, I find my voice. “The mug. I need to clean it up. I need to know how much it cost so I can repay Quinn. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Wren. Look at me.” Again, Catfish’s gruff voice cuts through the noise. “You’re safe.”
I’ve been told that before. When Mom died, they contacted the man who contributed his DNA then split. He refused to acknowledge my existence. I moved in with my grandmother, but she passed away seven months later. After that, every time I got moved to some new distant relative, to some new foster parent, to some derelict house with random strangers, someone would tell me I was safe.
But it was never long until I wasn’t.
“I wish I could believe that.”
His eyes search mine, but whatever they are looking for, the stain of disappointment in them says he didn’t find it. “Yeah. Me too. Sit there and let me clean this up.”
“If you just get me some shoes from my room, I could?—”
“Wren. You’re testing my fucking patience. Just sit still.”
I huff at that. “So much for being safe.”
Catfish glares at me. “I have never raised a hand to a…”
“Woman?” I finish. “Nothing like a bit of misgendering to make you feel safe.”
Catfish turns away from me, tugs a hand through his hair, and I see his shoulders lift and rise three times as he takes a series of deep breaths.
When he turns back, he looks calmer. “Wren. To the best of my knowledge, you’re the first non-binary person I ever met. I’m sorry for fucking it up. Yeah, I was about to say I have neverraised a hand to a woman, because it’s true, I haven’t. But I also haven’t ever hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. And my bar of people deserving it is pretty fucking high. Because being bullied as a kid gave me a different perspective, now, on what using my build, strength, and position as a biker looks like. And it doesn’t look like me losing my shit at someone for dropping a mug. I’m sorry for misgendering you. And I’m sorry if I scared you.”
His monologue takes the wind out of my sails. Maybe I wanted somewhere to redirect all the feelings of disappointment I had in myself. “Okay.”
Four letters that don’t really begin to express the feelings I have listening to him speak.
“To make it right, would you let me look at your knees and hands?”
Having forgotten about the pain of them momentarily, I lift my hands to study them. Blood trickles down my palm from one cut but prickles the surface in many more.
My left knee is worse, and as I properly study it, the rush of pain cuts through all the other noise in my head.
“I got it.” I look back to Catfish, who hasn’t stepped any closer, his hands out in front of him like a promise he won’t move unless I tell him to.
“It’s killing me you’re hurt, so this isn’t the time to prove how fucking self-sufficient you are.”
“Fine,” I say.
It takes him a second to reach me. He grabs the paper towel, then checks over all the injuries before deciding to start on the largest one on my knee.
Gently, he removes the ceramic chard, and I hiss. “Does it need stitching?”
I don’t like stitches because I don’t like medical needles. Piercings I’m fine with. But I don’t like needles because I don’t trust the medical professionals who wield them. Even thethought of the needle going in and out of my skin makes me a little spacey.
