Goddamn. That hurts to watch.
I try not to let it show, but my grin softens a little.
"There’s my answer," I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. "Why do you even care? So you can make fun of me for it later?"
"Tempting," I admit. "But no."
He raises an eyebrow.
I shrug. "You’re not exactly my favorite person in the universe, but I don’t need to watch you crumble in slow motion. That’s more depressing than funny."
He scoffs. I don’t blame him. Honestly, if I was in his place, I wouldn’t believe me either.
Still. Something about the way he’s sitting pisses me off. Not because he looks broken. Because it doesn’t suit him.
Wait.
What if… Should I… take him out?
No. No, absolutely not, that’s loser behavior. I don’t do good-guy rescue missions.
He hates me. And last time I tried to get him out of the house, I had to pass, what, seven emotional boss levels?!
I swear, at this point, I’ve dreamed of Rava saying "leave me alone" fifty times.
So why the hell am I even thinking about this? I don’t know. But he looks… Jesus Christ, he looks dead.
What fixes that? What even wakes him up?
He doesn’t want soft shit. He doesn’t want talking. He needs something…extreme. Something chaotic. Something that actually shocks him back into being alive.
My eyes go wide.
Oh.
Ohshit.
I know exactly what will wake him up.
And it’s a terrible idea.
A catastrophically, beautifully terrible idea.
"Fuck it," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"What?" he asks warily.
"Get dressed."
He stares at me. "What?"
"I said get dressed. You’re coming with me."
"No, I’mnot."
"Yes, youare."
