Page 51 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I’m assuming he means with me on the inside. But even if he didn’t, there’s no way I’m leaving him alone until I figure out what’s going on.

He staggers into his living room. The blinds are drawn, and the lights are off; the only illumination filters in through the cracks and from the adjacent rooms. But it’s enough for me to see that my neighbor is not himself right now.

“Nice of you to check in, neighbor girl, but you don’t have to stay.” He settles himself on the couch with a pained grunt. “I’m fine.”

I snort. “Really convincing delivery from a man clinging to the upholstery to keep from keeling over.”

“I’m upright,” he says without any heat just before he loses his grip on the cushions and slowly deflates into the chocolate-brown corduroy.

“Oookay.” I set my bag on the floor. “How did you get a massive head injury? And don’t say ‘accident’ again.” I’ve got some room on my list and some time in my schedule. If somebody hurt Hugo…

“I fell leaving yesterday’s board meeting at the West Side Women’s Shelter.” He closes his eyes and rolls so he’s mumbling into the cushion. “Hit my head on a car bumper.”

“You fell,” I repeat. “Into a bumper.”

He’s lying, of course. The bruise on his chin is likely from a punch, and I’m almost scared to ask what the hell happened to his head. Was he in a fight? Does Hugo even know how to fight? I want to bombard him with questions, but he’s clearly not up to an inquisition right now.

I kneel on the floor next to him. “Well, this is definitely a concussion.”

He nods once, then grimaces.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I am a doctor,” he grumps.

“Yes, Dr. Mohr. I know.” I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch as I do it. “I meant a medical doctor who could look at your head and give you actual medicine so you don’t die.”

“Yes. I saw a doctor.” He burrows into the cushions, his voice still worryingly thick and slow. “No brain bleed. Probably. Thank you, blood test thingy. I just need a couple of days of sitting still and avoiding screens.”

“And have you?” I glance at the phone, iPad, and laptop piled on the end table next to his head.

He makes a noncommittal noise. “For the most part.”

“No more screens for you,” I say, my mind racing. Should I hide his tech? Find him some painkillers? Call someone for a second opinion?

“I’m taking Tylenol,” he mumbles, as if he’s read my mind. “And something for nausea.”

“Zofran?”

“Mmm-hmm. That.”

Some of my alarm fades. Zofran is prescription only, so he must be correct about getting medical care.

He lifts his head a few inches. “You’re here, right?”

I don’t love the blurry confusion I see on his face, even though I know it’s normal postconcussion.

“I’m here,” I assure him, carefully stroking back the hair that’s fallen over his injured forehead.

“Mmmm. Keep doing that,” he mumbles as his breathing evens and slows.

“Okay,” I whisper, brushing my fingers gently over the strands as he drifts to sleep. Once he’s out, I keep petting him, marveling at how soft his hair is under my⁠—

I still. The strands are so damn soft, which means Dr. Huge-o Bore doesn’t have a single speck of gel in his hair. I almost laugh at the realization that it’s thick and silky with a little curl when he’s not mashing it down, and oh my god, he’s also not wearing his glasses. I was so caught up in Are you okay? and What happened? and Do you mind if I kill whoever did this to you? that I didn’t focus on the rest of him.

Without the barrier of his brown frames—which I secretly think are kind of nerdy-cool, not that I’d ever say so to Felicity—I can drink in his long, dark lashes and the bold arc of his nose, and I have to yank my hands away to keep from running my fingers along his jawline.

What am I doing? I can’t paw at a sleeping, injured man. I scoot backward, which both eliminates the temptation to touch him and gives me enough distance to take in the rest of him. With something bordering on trepidation, I let my eyes drop below his chin, and the news is not good.