My stomach drops.
I pull the mitts off and set them down too fast. My hands are suddenly slick.
I walk out of the kitchen and into the living area, crossing it toward the entryway, my steps quickening.
Another shuffle.
Another grunt.
Then he steps into view.
For half a second, my brain refuses to make sense of it.
He’s not in his suit anymore. He’s wearing black pants and a black shirt. His jacket is half on, half off, one arm fighting with it like his shoulder doesn’t want to move. His hair is messed up, not the neat version of him I’m used to seeing. His shirt is ripped, he’s limping, and his breathing is a little too heavy.
And his face—
One eye is nearly swollen shut.
There’s a cut on his cheek, dried blood along it.
Bruises bloom across his jaw and along his cheekbone, angry and dark, and the sight of them makes my lungs freeze up.
He takes one more step into the room, and I see it in the way he moves—careful and stiff like everything hurts, like it takes effort not to show it.
Like those aren’t the only bruises.
A sound leaves me before I can stop it.
A gasp. Sharp and helpless.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Then, louder, because my brain finally catches up.
“Oh my God, Nico.”
I rush to him.
He lifts his good hand, palm out, like he can stop me with a gesture.
“Erica,” he says, voice rough. “Jesus, I forgot— Don’t—”
I don’t listen. I’m already there, already reaching for him.
“What happened?” I demand, and it comes out too high. Too fast. “Your eye—”
He winces when he finally gets the jacket off his shoulder and lets it hang from his hand. The ripped fabric shifts, and I catch another flash of bruising along his ribs, dark under the black shirt.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice oddly muffled. “I’m dirty.”
I blink at him, stunned.
“Dirty?” I repeat. “Nico, what— I don’t care. What happened?”
I reach for him again, but again, he stops me with a hand.
“I mean it,” he says. “Blood. Sweat. Rats. I’m fine. Just don’t.”
