“Let’s get you in,” I say, my voice strained as I fumble for her keys, my hands suddenly clumsy. I need to get inside, to sit down, to let this wave of pain subside.
“Maddox,” she says, her voice soft but firm. She doesn’t move toward the door. She’s looking at me, really looking at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you hurt? You winced.”
“I’m okay,” I lie, the words tasting like ash. I try to straighten up, to project an air of nonchalance, but the movement sends another searing jolt through my side. “Just a twinge. I’m fine.”
“Maddox,” she repeats, her tone leaving no room for argument. She takes the keys from my trembling hand. “You’re not fine.”
She unlocks the door and pushes it open, guiding me inside with a gentleness that belies the determination on her face. The moment we step over the threshold, a flash of gray fur launches itself from the couch. Nimbus winds around our ankles, his purr a loud, rumbling engine of welcome.
But Millie’s attention is entirely on me. She leads me to the couch, her hand still on my arm. “Sit,” she commands, and I’m too tired, too much in pain, to argue. I sink onto the cushions, the movement pulling at my injured muscles.
“I’m fine, Mills,” I insist, but she’s already kneeling in front of me, her eyes level with mine.
“No, you’re not,” she says, her voice quiet but unwavering. “Let me see.”
“No, really, it’s nothing. Just pulled a muscle at the station.”
“Maddox,” she says, and her hands move to the hem of my uniform shirt. Her fingers are warm against the fabric. “Please.”
I should stop her. I should push her hands away, stand up, and walk out. I should protect this secret I’ve so carefully guarded. But I’m tired. So tired of the pain, of the lies, of the constant, crushing weight of pretending to be okay.
And it’s her. It’s Millie. I am powerless to stop her.
She watches my face, searching for any sign of protest, but I remain silent, my jaw tight. She takes my silence as consent. Her fingers, with a slowness that feels both reverent and terrifying, begin to untuck my shirt from my pants.
Her knuckles brush against my stomach, and a shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. She pulls the shirt up, exposing the skin of my abdomen, and then she sees it.
“Holy fuck,” she whispers, the words a soft puff of air against my skin.
My torso is a mottled canvas of deep purple, angry blue, and sickly yellow. The bruises spread from my ribs down to my hip, a grotesque map that I carry with me every single day.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice hoarse. I want to pull my shirt down to hide the evidence of my weakness, but my arms feel like lead.
“I need to see,” she says, her eyes fixed on the damage. Her gaze is filled with a mixture of horror and a fierce, protective anger. Her fingers, so gentle, trace the edge of the largest bruise, a dark, sprawling bloom over my ribs. The touch is light as a feather, but it sends a fresh wave of agony through me. I flinch, and she snatches her hand back as if she’s been burned.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes.
“It’s okay,” I manage, my eyes squeezed shut.
This isn’t how I imagined it. Not this. Not her discovering my brokenness like this, in the aftermath of her own collapse. I always imagined, in my most foolish, private moments, that it would be different. That it would be a choice. But this is just another accident, another painful collision in the dark.
Her hands move to the buttons of my uniform shirt. Her movements are sure, methodical. She works them down one by one, her knuckles brushing against my chest with each one. Then she peels back the shirt, her gaze dropping to the T-shirt underneath. Without hesitation, she hooks her fingers under thehem of that too, and I lift my arms mechanically, allowing her to pull it over my head.
The cool air of the apartment hits my skin, and I sit there, half-naked and exposed, every flaw, every scar, every painful secret laid bare for her to see. Her eyes roam over my chest and back, taking in the network of smaller bruises, the faint white lines of older scars.
“How did this happen?” she asks.
I swallow, the lie I’ve told a hundred times dying on my tongue. The look in her eyes, the raw concern on her face, it breaks something open inside me. I can’t lie to her. Not anymore.
“The fire,” I say, the words quiet but clear. “A beam fell. It… it pinned me for a few minutes.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “That was months ago. Maddox, this looks recent. Some of these bruises are still fresh.”
“I’ve been okay,” I say, the excuse sounding weak even to my own ears.
“You’re not okay,” she says, her voice shaking. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just above a particularly nasty, dark bruise on my side. “You’re not okay at all. This looks like it happened yesterday.”
I let out a long breath. “I slept in at the station the other night. The bunks aren’t as comfortable. I think I bruised a few ribs again.”
