I picked up the fork and took a bite. The food was good.
Declan sat across from me with his own plate, watching me eat with that steady attention that made my skin feel too tight.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” he asked finally.
“What do you mean?”
“The bruises, Troy. You look like you got into a fight.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Did you?”
I set my fork down and looked at him across the table. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It matters.”
“Why?”
“Because you're hurt. Because I need to know if someone's coming after you. Because I—” He stopped. Started again. “Because I care what happens to you whether you want me to or not.”
The honesty in his voice hit harder than any punch. Made my chest feel tight in ways that had nothing to do with broken ribs.
“Someone jumped me,” I said finally.
Declan went very still. “When?”
“Yesterday. After I bought the bike.”
“Troy—”
“What was I supposed to do? Come home and cry about getting my ass kicked? You would've loved that.”
“That's not—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, clearly fighting the urge to start an argument neither of us had energy for. “Let me see.”
“See what?”
“The damage. How bad is it?”
“I'm fine.”
“You can barely move without wincing. That's not fine.” He stood up and moved around the table toward me. “Let me see.”
The smart move was to tell him to back off. To remind him I wasn't fifteen anymore and didn't need him checking me for broken bones like I was some kid who couldn't handle myself.
But I was tired. Everything hurt. And some part of me that I had been trying to ignore wanted his hands on me even if it was just to patch up the damage.
So I didn't argue. Just sat there while he crouched beside my chair, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with sweat from work.
His fingers touched my jaw. Careful. Gentle. Tilting my face toward the light so he could see the bruise properly.
“This looks bad,” he said quietly.
“Feels worse.”
He moved to the cut above my eyebrow and examined it. “This should've been stitched.”
“Didn't have time.”
