It’s not a compliment. Simply a remark.
Still, I refuse to let the opening, regardless of how small it is, pass by.
“I used to self-harm,” I confess, the words emotionless.
I remain focused on the task at hand as I explain. Anything else has the power to unravel me.
“Harm reduction practices include cleaning wounds and bandaging them properly to avoid infection. I learned to tend to my wounds at a young age. I have an EMS certification, and I train volunteer counselors on best practices so they can teach others. Noah’s good at it, too. If you ever need help and I’m not around.”
I work up the nerve to look up at him then, and the empathy radiating from him nearly knocks me over.
“That’s—fuck. That’s a lot.” He shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Scrutinizing him, looking for the underlying message, the cutting remark I must have missed, I rise to my feet.
“What?” he asks, his brow pinched.
Words escape me. I don’t know what I expected him to say or how I wanted him to react. But treating me with kindness after what I’ve done is beyond what I deserve.
I don’t know why I even shared that with him.
Defensiveness creeps in like a shield. Brows raised, I huff. “I just admitted to a personal weakness—you don’t feel compelled to weaponize it against me? You’re not going to throw out a sarcastic jab?”
Keeping his focus fixed on me, he reaches over the bed for his shirt.
“Wait.” I put a hand out. “Let me get you a dry one.”
I shuffle to the dresser, pluck a dry T-shirt out, and hand it to him.
He gingerly works it over his head and smooths the front in place. Then he turns his attention back to me. “I don’t think you and I are going to be best friends anytime soon.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
“But I promised Sawyer I’d make an effort.”
My gut bottoms out.
That’s it?
After what I’ve done? He can’t possibly be prepared to forgive and forget that easily.
Off-kilter and a bit emotional, I fall back on sarcasm. “You not taking an easy hit at me is the equivalent of making an effort?”
He smirks, shaking his head. “You’re really fucking sassy, you know that, prof?”
There it is.
But Tytus doesn’t give me a chance to volley a witty remark his way before he goes on.
“Look. I’m a hothead. Always have been. People love to talk about fight or flight. But I grew up being locked in a cage on a regular basis, where flight wasn’t an option. My instincts are to lash out. When I’m worked up or pushed too far, I slip into a dark, mental shutdown. I can feel it coming on, like a headache. The world gets fuzzy, and I go numb. It’s really fucking hard not to sink into the darkness sometimes.”
He drops onto the bed, his shoulders slumped, his expression one of exhaustion.
My mind reels. Damn. Between what he and Sawyer shared this morning and the darkness he fights regularly…Jesus H. This kid’s so deeply damaged.
Yet he’s still putting in the effort. He’s still willing to try.
Glancing up, he presses his lips together and shrugs. “There. Now you have something to weaponize against me. We’re even.”
