“Thanks,” he said, voice almost shy.
I shrugged. “You done bleeding? Then get in the shower.”
He blinked, not moving.
I stood and jerked my thumb toward the hall. “Second door. Towels on the rack.”
He stared, then got up, shuffling past me, but not before muttering “Yes, sir” under his breath.
I watched him go, every part of me wanting to follow, to see if he’d actually do what he was told. Instead, I cleared the bowls and wiped down the table. The little acts of order calmed thethrum in my chest, the one that had been ticking over since the phone call from Knox.
The shower kicked on, pipes rattling in the walls. I set out a stack of towels, then dug through my closet for something clean he could wear. He’d never fit my jeans, but an old pair of sweats and a flannel should be close enough. I set them on the edge of the bed.
I lingered in the hallway, staring at the closed bathroom door. Through the panel, I heard the groan of pipes and the slap of water on tile. I imagined the shock of hot water against Bo’s bruised skin, the sting over every fresh cut and purpled mark. He’d stand there as long as he could, I bet, letting the heat burn out the ache.
When the shower finally cut off, the apartment filled with a thick fog of steam, even out in the hall. The door opened and Bo emerged, towel around his waist, water still dripping from his hair. His face was scrubbed clean, the bruising uglier in the harsh light but his eyes clearer. He clocked the clothes on the bed and paused, something like embarrassment flickering across his face.
“These yours?” he said, picking up the shirt. He sniffed it, then shrugged and started pulling it on.
“They’re clean,” I said, voice sharper than I meant.
He flinched, but didn’t reply, just dressed with an efficiency that said he was used to being seen naked and had long stopped caring.
The shirt swallowed him, sleeves rolled up twice and still past his wrists. The sweatpants hung low on his hips, drawstring tight. He looked ridiculous—like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet.
It did nothing to lessen the pulse behind my ribs.
He stood there, towel around his neck, then looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “What, you want me to fold the towels too?”
I jerked my head toward the living room. “Get on the couch. I’ll bring out a blanket.”
He collapsed into the cushions, exhaling like he’d just run a marathon. His feet stuck out past the end, his hands fiddled with the edge of the flannel.
“You want a beer?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised. “Thought you said to stick to water.”
“One won’t kill you.” I grabbed two bottles from the fridge, twisted off the caps, and handed him one.
He took it, sipped, then cradled it in both hands. “Thanks, Jo.”
I sat across from him, beer in hand, and waited. He stared at the ceiling for a while, lost in thought.
After a minute, he said, “You ever think about just leaving? Just packing a bag and never coming back?”
I shook my head. “Where would I go?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Sometimes I get the urge to ride until I run out of road.”
I watched him, saw the way his knuckles whitened on the bottle. “Running don’t solve shit.”
He snorted. “You would say that.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “You done running?”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said maybe, just for tonight.
I tossed him a blanket, thick and soft, the kind that used to live at the foot of my parents’ bed. He wrapped it around himself, cocooned, and let his head drop back onto the pillow.
