“I do,” she said quietly. “He’ll ask questions if I don’t.”
I nodded, even though I hated it. “Tell him nothing.” Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. “Don’t move too much. Don’t be an idiot.”
I nodded. “Can’t promise either.”
That made her smile, a faint and reluctant one as she backed away from me, removing the apron. Then she stepped out into the rain without another word, hood pulled up, and shoulders hunched.
The silence closed in around me again like a slow fog, but it didn’t last long. The front door slammed open with a force that rattled the frame. I barely had time to turn before Misfit stormed into the flat, fury carved into every step.
“You absolute piece of shit!” She snapped, “You just bolted, leaving me there. Are you brain dead or just like signing your own death warrant?”
My head lolling forward as I leaned against the counter, placing my plate into the sink. I just blinked slowly through the haze of pain clawing at me. My body felt like it had been tossed down four flights of stairs and run over for good measure.
“Misfit…” I tried, but she was already pacing.
“No, don’t ‘Misfit’ me.” Her voice cracked a little on it. “You think I didn’t have cuffs on me the second you took off? Fucking prick.” She stalked closer, soaked to the bone, “Well? Don’t fucking ignore me, Screech! That was a real classy move.”
Her chest heaved with the effort of holding it all in, the betrayal, the sheer audacity of me running. She stopped cold. Her eyes widened to the bruises decorating my face, scanninglower to the abrasions on my arms. She jolted my shoulder, pushing me from the counter to look upon me properly as I winced at the forced movement.
“What the fuck happened to you?” she said, her voice quieter now. Her brows creasing as I lifted my top, checking to see if I had split my stitches, revealing the bloodied gauze and purpling bruises spiderwebbing across my ribcage.
“Long story,” letting out a hard breath as I worked through the pain.
She scoffed, crossing her arms, “That better not be you brushing me off again.” Raising an eyebrow to me as I offered her a cocky half smile, “You’re a dick!” she said bluntly.
“Yeah,” I didn’t argue.
“But my kind of dick,apparently.” That got a twitch of a smile out of me, and she rolled her eyes like it pissed her off to see it.
“Oft, talk dirty to me why don’t you,” My eyes falling onto her with my tired attempt at sarcasm.
“Alright, you idiot, you should be laid down.” She gestured vaguely towards the bedroom of the flat.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked, the words a rough whisper. She ignored the question, her jaw tight.
“Just move it, Screech. Before you embarrass yourself and actually fall over or something.” She moved to my side, her hand hovering as if to support me, then thought better of it, her fingers twitching with restraint.
Getting to the bedroom was a slow, painful shuffle. Every step was an effort, and the world tilted precariously with each movement. Misfit watched me with narrowed eyes, making sure I didn’t stumble, though she offered no physical help. Once I was finally stretched out on the bed, my head against the pillow, a groan escaped my lips. She knelt beside the bed, her usual fiery energy subdued. Tentatively lifting my top, she reached out, her fingers ghosting over the bandages on my ribs. Hertouch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to her earlier tirade. She peeled back the gauze carefully; her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined the purpling bruises and stitches. It was a strange moment of quiet intimacy between us, a contradiction to our usual chaotic exchanges. The air hummed with unspoken things, the usual barbs and tension replaced by a fragile vulnerability.
“How do you know what you’re looking at?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She paused; her gaze still fixed on my wounds. “Used to want to be a doctor, read a lot of books,” her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Before…um.” She trailed off, the word hanging in the air, unfinished, a silent curtain falling over a part of her past she wasn’t ready to share. She carefully replaced the gauze.
“I’ll be back soon with some medical shit and strong painkillers.”
My curiosity, despite the pain, was piqued. “Where are you getting them from?”
She stood, a ghost of her usual defiance returning to her eyes. “I live with a doctor.” And with that, she turned and left, the quiet closing in once more.
CHAPTER 19
Idon’t remember falling asleep. One minute, I was staring at the cracked ceiling, replaying every sharp breath, every haunting moment of my beating. The next, I was out, dragged under by exhaustion.
When I woke, the room was dipped in that half-light between evening and night. Soft shadows stretched long across the floor, rain still tapping at the window like a quiet knock, and her chilled hand on my chest. Resting there, light and still, fingers splayed over my ribs like she was making sure I was still breathing.
My first instinct was to tense, to say something cocky or deflect with a joke, but I didn’t. I kept my breath steady, unsure if she knew I was awake. Her touch moved, slow and deliberate. Tracing the edges of my bruises, following them with a kind of reverence that didn’t match the usual fire in her.
“What the fuck have you gotten yourself into, Screech?” she murmured. “As soon as you’re better, I’m gonna kick your ass.” My silent restraint started to falter. Something in me wanted to let her keep talking, to see what spilled out when she thought no one was listening.
