“I didn’t,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “I’m calling off from hockey for a few days,” he says finally. “I told Coach I need personal time.”
I blink. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.” He grabs a bottle of electrolyte drink from the fridge and hands it to me. “You’re staying here. You need sleep, real food, and to not drink yourself into another blackout.”
His tone is final. No room for argument. He’s in full caretaker mode, and some part of me that’s always had to take care of myself doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
I take the bottle and twist the cap open. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting you,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I’m taking care of you.”
Something in the way he says it hits deep. I swallow hard and look away, pretending to focus on the condensation running down the side of the bottle.
“Thanks,” I mumble. The word feels small compared to everything he’s doing for me.
He gives a short nod, then gestures toward the bathroom. “Go shower. You’ll feel better.”
I glance down at my clothes. My jeans are torn from where I fell, my shirt dirty and still faintly smelling of cheap whiskey. “Yeah. Okay.”
When I stand, my body protests. My muscles ache, my head pounds, but the hot water helps. I lean against the tile, watching the dirt and city grime swirl down the drain, wondering how the hell I got here.
When I step out, I realize I’m not at my house and have no clean clothes. Typical. Before I can wrap the towel tighter around my waist and go looking, there’s a soft knock.
“Magnus?” Alaric’s voice. “I left something by the door. T-shirt and sweats.”
“Thanks,” I call out.
When I step into the bedroom, he’s on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a frown. The screen lights up with another call, and he presses it facedown on the cushion.
“Your phone’s gonna explode,” I say.
“Let it,” he mutters. “He can rot.”
I take a sip of the electrolyte drink, sitting down beside him.
He turns to look at me, eyes softening. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached,” I say. “No permanent damage.”
He doesn’t laugh. “Don’t make jokes about that.”
“I’m fine, baby.”
“Stop saying that when you’re not.”
There’s steel under the worry now. I open my mouth, then close it again. He’s right. I’m not fine. I’m hanging by a thread.
He exhales and leans back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself,” I admit. “It’s not… I wasn’t trying to?—”
“I know.” His voice softens. “But you’ve got to stop punishing yourself for things that aren’t your fault.”
I look down at my hands. The scabs on my knuckles catch the light. “It’s not that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was. But you’re not doing it alone this time.”
