“You are not fine,” I say, and my voice breaks on the last word because I look at his face again, and it’s like my brain can’t accept it. “Sit. Now.”
His jaw tightens.
He tries to take one more step, and his breath catches, sharp and involuntary, like his body snitched on him.
I grab his wrist anyway.
He flinches, then freezes.
“Shower,” he insists. “Then sit. Promise.”
His voice is still oddly muffled, and it looks like he’s not fully opening his jaw.
“Nico, I think you need to go to the hospital.”
But he’s shaking his head before I even finish.
“No hospital. Fine.”
And whatever is going on with his jaw is getting worse by the second.
For a second, I consider just calling an ambulance against his wishes. But I sigh.
“Fine,” I say tightly. “Can you even go up the stairs?”
He points to a hall off to the side without a word. I take it to mean there’s a bathroom with a shower there somewhere.
“Okay,” I say, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t shake like it desperately wants to. “Come on.”
He shifts his weight like he’s about to stand on pride alone.
His breath catches again.
I step in before he can pretend it didn’t.
“Don’t,” I warn, low. “Don’t be heroic. Just… let me.”
“Dirty,” he insists again. “No touch.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re going to shower then.”
Carefully, mindful of bruises I can’t see, I slide an arm around his waist. I can’t actually take on that much of his weight, but I can help him stay straight.
I know it’s bad when he actually does lean on me just a bit.
We start down the hall.
His steps are measured, but there’s a hitch to them. A slight drag, as if one leg is protesting.
My stomach turns with every little sound he makes—every restrained exhale, every swallow he forces with the hurt and the pain.
“You’re not fine,” I mutter. “And youshouldbe in a hospital.”
He doesn’t answer.
We reach a bedroom at the end of the hall, and inside it is another door leading to a bathroom.
It’s as nice as the rest of the house—stone tile, glass shower. A thick stack of towels carefully folded.
