"Erica," he says gently.
I don't answer. I just sniffle and wipe at my face with the back of my hand like a child.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is a little stronger this time. "None of that. This isn't sad."
"It is sad," I say, and my voice trembles.
"No, it's not," he says, and he shifts, trying to sit up straighter. He winces, a sharp, hissing breath that he tries to hide, but I hear it. "It’s… good."
I shake my head, not understanding.
"Before you," he says, and he has to pause and swallow like even talking about it hurts. "I didn't have this. I had a house. I had things. But I didn't have… this."
His thumb sweeps over my cheek again, wiping away another tear I didn't realize had fallen.
"You're here," he says, like that's the whole explanation.
He shifts underneath me, and I know it must hurt, but he doesn't make a sound. He wraps his arm tighter around me, pulling me in closer, and I feel the solid warmth of him through the thin terry cloth of the robe. I can feel his heart beating against mine.
"I'm not letting you leave," he says, his words slurring just a little. "You're stuck here."
I guess that pill is finally kicking in.
"Eat some more," I say. "Before that pill puts you to sleep."
"I'm not tired," he says, even as I watch him blink, his good eye slow and heavy. But he opens his mouth anyway, and I feed him another bite, then another, until half the plate is gone.
He's definitely feeling it now. His body is starting to go lax against me, his arm loose around my waist.
"Okay," I say, setting the plate aside. "That's enough for now."
He makes a soft noise of protest, but it’s weak.
"Do you want to go up to your bed?" I ask.
"No," he murmurs. "Here. With you."
He’s already leaning his head back against the recliner, his eyes closed. His breathing is starting to even out, deep and slow. He looks exhausted. He looks like he's been fighting for his life.
Because he has.
I stare at him, at the angry swelling around his eye, the dark bruises on his jaw, the faint purple already spreading down his neck toward his collarbones.
I was right. It is going to look worse tomorrow.
I get up as carefully as I can, trying not to jostle him too much, and grab a blanket from the back of the sofa. I unfold it and drape it over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He doesn't stir.
Then I pick up the plate and the water glass and carry them to the kitchen. I put the leftovers away, rinse the dishes, and wipe down the counters until everything is exactly as it was before I got here.
Then I go back to him.
He’s still asleep, but he’s shifted a little, turning his head toward the back of the chair. The blanket has slipped down, exposing the worst of the bruising on his ribs. It’s a brutal, ugly mosaic of purple and black, a stark reminder of what he did, or what was done to him.
I curl up on the sofa closest to him and watch him sleep. I can’t help it. Usually, he looks the same when he sleeps. His expression hard. But tonight, he looks different. Softer. Vulnerable.
My anger, the sharp, protective thing that rose up in me when I first saw him, has faded into something else. A deep, aching sadness for him. For the life he lives that leads to this. For the fact that he thinks it’s normal.
I think about him saying no one has ever done this for him. That people run. And I wonder if he’s right. I wonder if anyone has ever looked at him and seen past the dangerous exterior to the man underneath. A man who comes home beaten and bruised and just wants to pass out alone.
