“Sit up,” I said. Not a question.
He did, without so much as a flinch. The blanket slipped off his chest, baring a scatter of fresh bruises and the bruising blue-black tattoo that covered his right arm from wrist to shoulder. He eyed the food, but waited, lips pressed tight.
I poured him a cup of coffee—black, just the way he liked it—and handed it over. “Drink.”
He did, both hands wrapped around the mug, and for a second the world felt so quiet I could hear the click of the old clock on the wall. He took a long pull, then another, eyes sliding shut as he swallowed.
“Eat,” I said, voice softer but not any less certain.
He started in on the eggs, scarfing them down like he hadn’t eaten in a week. I let him go for a minute, watching the color creep back into his face and the tightness around his mouth ease, just a little. He moved slow and careful, like he was waiting for me to change my mind and yank the tray away.
“You always this bossy?” he muttered, not quite looking at me.
“Only with people who listen,” I shot back.
That earned me the faintest smile, a real one, not the broken-tooth grin he used on everyone else. He tore a strip of bacon in half, shoved it in his mouth, then turned to me and asked, “So what’s the deal, Moxley? You running a recovery ward now, or did I just get lucky?”
I took my time answering. “You’re staying put. At least for the day. That’s not negotiable.”
He let his head loll back against the headboard, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “You always did like giving orders.”
“Somebody has to.”
He huffed, but the noise was more fond than pissed. He sipped his coffee again, then reached for the toast. I watched his hands, watched the way they trembled when he let his guard down.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The city was waking up outside, but in here it was just two men, a bed, and the smell of breakfast curling around the sheets.
I reached over, brushed a crumb off his cheek.
He didn’t pull away.
“Bodean” I said, and his eyes flicked to mine, dark and sharp.
“Yeah?”
“You’re safe,” I said, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything but eat and rest. Understood?”
He looked at me like he wanted to argue, but then the fight drained out of him, and he nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”
I watched him eat, the hunger in his eyes matching something hot and ugly in my own chest. The sunlight was climbing higher now, turning the room bright and new. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted something this bad.
Maybe never.
When the food was gone and the coffee was cold, he set the tray aside and let himself sink back into the pillows. He looked at me, gaze steady.
“So what now?” he asked.
I stood, then leaned down to tuck the blanket up around his shoulders. My hands lingered for a second, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiate off his skin.
“Now,” I said, “you sleep. I’ll be right here.”
He nodded, eyelids already drooping. The bruise on his cheek caught the light, ugly but somehow perfect, like every piece of damage made him more real.
I watched him drift, watched his body go loose and heavy under the quilt, and let myself imagine what it would be like tohold him all the way through the night. To wake up with that wild, dangerous thing curled against my chest, breathing easy for once.
My hands itched to touch him, to press down and remind him whose bed he was in. But I kept them to myself. For now.
I sat by the window and watched the sun crawl across the floor, counting every second until he woke up again and I could start over.
