“No, no, god no. Eat all you want. I was just, you just—” He huffs taking another mouthful of cake.
“I what?”
“You just looked cute is all. You look happy. It’s adorable.” He smiles, not meeting my eyes as he demolishes his side of the cake. It’s impossible to eat and not focus on the heat on my face.
“Grown men aren’t cute or adorable.” I laugh now, eatinga bit faster, my embarrassment fading with Grey’s reassurance and example, because damn. Do all athletes eat like this?
“Untrue,” Grey says between bites. “I’m fucking adorable.”
I snort. “I think handsome is a better word. You’re very handsome. Incredibly handsome.” I stare down at my cake. Does this have drugs in it? I can’t believe I said that out loud. I chance a look up.
Grey watches me, his lids a little heavy. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see. “Thank you.”
I set my fork down, unable to eat any more. The cake’s nearly gone anyway. It makes me happy to see him eat. I know he’s worried about gaining weight since he can’t be as active as he’d like, but he shouldn’t be worrying about that.
I need something to do with my hands. “Let me clean up.”
I get up quickly, grabbing the dish, trying to run from the rush of what I’m feeling. Not paying attention, I trip over my feet and crash to the floor. A sharp sting pulses in my hand from the glass shattered everywhere. No. No. No. No.
“Holy shit, Felix.” He gets up fast. Too fast. No, no, no. I broke the glass. I’m so stupid, so stupid. So stupid. “Felix.” He grabs me.
“Stop!” I scream. He stills. No. No. I can’t breathe. I can’t. Warmth spills down my fist. I can’t see. I can’t. I rock, folding in on myself. I can’t. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Warmth slicks my skin. Blood drips down my palm, hot and pulsing.
“Felix.” The softer tone shakes me out of this heavy rush. I blink, then feel it. A light touch on my shoulder. “Felix, look at me.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Felix. Look at me.” Slowly I look up and see Grey.
“Your knee.” He’s trying to bend to my level. “Grey, get up.”
“Not until you see me.” He looks at me. “You’re okay. Alright? You’re okay.”
I swallow thickly, realizing the mess I’m making on my shirt. His shirt. “My clothes.”
“I don’t give a shit about your clothes. I just care about you.” I see him tremor slightly, his leg.
“Grey, please get up.”
He sighs, grabbing the back of his chair to help him stand. His arms tremor. Slowly I follow, still shaking. Still crying. Why am I like this? What have I done? I ruin everything. “Hey. Look at me.” I can’t stop shaking. “Your hand is bleeding; I need to see it. I want to make sure you don’t need stitches.” I watch him wince as he uses the back of the chair to move. I need him to lie down. “Come on.”
He guides me to the sink, my attention still on his prominent limp as I let him take my hand. His movements are soft and slow.
“This might sting, okay?” He rubs my hand under the cool water, but I don’t register the feeling. I only see him. My attention darts from his face to his knee. He’s not putting weight on it.
His blond brows are furrowed as he inspects my hand. My chest still feels like it’s vibrating. I’m so tired. “I ruin everything.” It bubbles up out of my throat, but it’s the truth. We were having a great night. I fucking ruined it.
Grey closes his eyes for a moment. Gathering patience? Trying to tamp down the urge to call me a freak? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t blame him for any of it. “It doesn’t look like there’s any glass. The cut seems manageable. He presses a paper towel to it. I’m going to put some ointment on it and a bandage.”
He opens a drawer, pulling out a first aid box. “Your shirt is ruined.”
“I don’t give a shit about the clothes, Felix. I can buy youmore. I have a ton of those shirts,” he says softly. Anger radiates off him. Of course he’s angry. Because I broke shit. I’m clumsy and stupid.
“Are you mad?”
He looks up at that. My hand stills in his. “No. I don’t give a shit about the towel, the clothes, the damn dish. I don’t give a shit about any of it.” His hand reaches out, and my first instinct is to recoil. Instead, his hand lands on my cheek, guiding my chin up to look at him. Fury burns in his eyes, but for the first time in my life, that anger isn’t directed at me.
I think... I think it might beforme.
