“I stole your ring back.”
“So I heard.”
His chest shudders with a huff. “I think they gave it to Julian. He’s probably already used it to propose to a paramedic.”
I don’t bother telling him that I actually have both of our rings, because that might lead to a conversation about them that he’s in no condition for. And me? Well, I’m just a coward.
“I also heard about your little fight with the scoreboard.”
“It was a real donnybrook. Not with the scoreboard. Just all the assholes I ran into afterward. The scoreboard stood no chance against me.”
“What the hell is a donnybrook?”
“A brawl,” he says, like I’m ridiculous for not knowing. “It was on my SAT.”
“I can’t tell if this proves or disproves that you have a concussion.”
He shrugs and reaches past me for the Jell-O on his tray.
“I got it.” I take the cup and tear back the foil lid before handing it to him with the plastic spoon stuck inside.
He takes a bite and then holds a spoonful out for me.
I side-eye him, but he’s just watching me expectantly, so I open my mouth and take the gelatin peace offering.
“Maybe I should get the shit kicked out of me more often.”
“We might not want to make a habit out of that.” I should be mad at him for doing something so violent and stupid and then getting caught up in a fight on top of that. But some very basic part of me wishes he’d been able to put the other guys in the hospital.
“I’m guessing you had a run-in with Tate.”
He scoffs. “More like he had a run-in with my fist.”
“What a big tough guy you are,” I tell him in a baby voice.
His normally charming smile is a little lopsided. “I threw the first punch,” he admits.
“That must have felt good.”
“Felt great.”
Bennett finishes off the rest of the Jell-O as the doctor comes in, scrolling through one phone with another in his other hand. He’s short with a head of black curly hair.
“Graves?” he asks without looking up. “Bennett?”
Beside me, Bennett nods, but the doctor still hasn’t looked up, so I answer for him. “Yes,” I tell him. “That’s right.”
“Next of kin?” He glances up to me briefly, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy.
“She’s my wife for now,” Bennett provides as he yanks my hand into his lap, my arm pressed against his bare side.
The doctor pauses at that, but lets it go. “I’m Dr. Roshan. Your CT scan came back clear. You’ve got a sprained wrist and two broken ribs. The split lip and the bruises should heal in the next few weeks, but I’m going to recommend you take an anti-inflammatory.”
“So, he’s okay?” I ask eagerly.
“Anyone who gets in a six-on-one fight is not okay, but physically, he is fine. We’ll keep him here for another two hours of observation.” He scrolls through something on his phone.
“He had open-heart surgery as a baby, though,” I tell the doctor. “For a congenital heart defect. Doesn’t he need to be observed or—”
