His one good eye is pinned on me, and there’s something in it I don’t recognize. Something soft and heavy at the same time. It makes my chest feel tight.
“Erica,” he says, and his name for me is always different. Always something more than just letters.
“What?” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
“I’m trying to think of a word that isn’t ‘perfect’,” he says, “because that’s too simple. And I’m trying to think of a way to tell you that no one has ever… done this. For me.”
My breath hitches.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t lie to make me feel better. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
“I’m not lying,” he says, and his voice is so quiet it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “I don’t do that. Not with you.”
His thumb traces a slow line over my hip, right over the terrycloth of the robe.
"I forgot you were coming," he says. "After... this. All I wanted to do was come home, hose myself down, throw some alcohol on my cuts, down a couple pills, and pass out."
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
"Instead, I open the door, and you’re here," he says. "With a home-cooked meal. That doesn’t happen to me. I've never had that before."
"What?" I mumble sarcastically. "A home-cooked meal?"
"This," he says. "Right here. All of it."
I finally force myself to look directly at him.
"You saw me and didn’t run.”
“Why would I run?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Because people run,” he says simply. “They run from… this."
He gestures vaguely at his own face, at the swelling and the cut and the bruises.
"My life. My family. All of it. They don't stick around to wash rat droppings out of my hair and tend to my wounds and feed me. They don't want to see the ugly parts.”
My heart cracks right down the middle.
I think about all the times I’ve been scared. Scared of the things he represents. Scared of the danger that seems to orbit him like a moon. And I think about all the times I’ve wanted to run, but didn’t.
Because underneath all of it, there’s this. A man who doesn’t expect kindness, who doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s offered.
I feel a surge of something so fierce it makes my chest ache. A tear escapes before I can stop it, sliding down my cheek and landing on my chest.
His fingers come up to my face, thumb catching the next one before it can fall.
“Don’t,” he says. “You’ll make me feel worse.”
"Don't say things like that," I say, my voice choked. "Don't act like you're some monster."
"I'm not," he says. "But I'm not a saint either."
"Nobody's a saint," I snap, but it has no heat. "You think I am?"
"You're close," he says, and it's so unexpected it makes a laugh bubble up in my chest, but it comes out wet and shaky. "Especially now."
Another tear escapes.
