I scoff, stopping near the coffee table. “Don’t I always?”
His expression shifts, almost amused. “Debatable.”
“Can’t you just stop already?” I shoot back, then stop myself from saying more. I don’t want a fight right now.
Not when I’m still unnerved by Grant.
I exhale and then tilt my chin up. “It was . . . fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows I’m leaving something out.
I keep my face still.
He stares one beat too long, then leans back into the couch like he’s letting it go. Not because he believes me, but because he doesn’t want to be bothered right now. He really must have had a bad day.
“Good.”
I should turn and leave. The smart thing to do would be to go upstairs and lock myself in my room, but instead, my gaze drops.
To his hands.
I squint.
His knuckles are bruised, and they are not old bruises. These marks are fresh. Purple and red. The skin looks swollen.
He was in a fight. My stomach twists, and before I can stop myself, my body moves until I’m so close I’m able to reach out. My fingers hover over his bruises, hesitating.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, concern evident in my voice.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves. There is something sinister in the way he looks right now. Almost bitter.
He shifts his hand away slightly, not fully withdrawing, just enough to keep control of the situation. “That . . . is nothing.”
I swallow, my hand pulling back like I’ve been burned. “Nothing doesn’t look like that.”
“You should see the wall.”
I blink. “You punched a wall.”
He makes a small, dismissive gesture with his bruised hand. “In my defense, the wall started it.”
“That’s a lie,” I chide.
Lorenzo’s gaze lifts to mine, and a flicker of something is there. If I had to guess, it looks like a mixture of humor and pain. A nostalgic moment, which I know he will shut down as fast as I saw it.
“You’re staring.” He narrows his eyes, and it feels like a curtain is dropping on a show I’ve been watching.
“I’m assessing you, if you want to know the truth.” I smile.
“Assess this,” he replies.
Slowly, he turns his forearm outward, and I’m met with a long scar running up the length.
It’s not a thin white line. No, this one looks like it cut to the bone.
It’s jagged, thick, and pale against his skin. It disappears beneath his sleeve, but I can tell it goes higher. Farther.
My breath catches hard enough that my chest aches, then my eyes snap up to his face. “What is—”
