Page 52 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

My buttoned-up, tucked-in, locked-down neighbor is completely undone.

He’s wearing a wrinkled, semibuttoned dress shirt, like he tried to get ready for work out of habit but couldn’t manage more than a few buttons. The sleeves are sloppily rolled, and before I get sidetracked composing mental poetry to his forearms, I continue downward and discover that he’s wearing sweatpants.

I’ve never seen my neighbor in sweatpants. In fact, if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said that the chances of this particular man even owning sweatpants—thin gray ones, no less—were basically nil, and I certainly wouldn’t have predicted that the well-worn material would cling to the muscles of his thighs and give me yet another place I’d need to pull my eyes away from immediately.

In my haste to look anywhere else, my gaze falls to his feet.

His bare feet.

Much like it never occurred to me that Hugo owned clothes that weren’t business casual beige, I was not aware that Hugo had feet. I mean, in the abstract, sure, he wears those ugly loafers, and he walks around. But Hugo has, like, nice masculine feet. They’re big enough that he could trap mine between them if we were tucked under the covers and my toes were cold. And oh my god, why does the sight of his bare feet have me thinking about playing big-spoon, little-spoon footsie with him?

Spooning isn’t my thing. Feet aren’t my thing. Hugo looking so human and vulnerable isn’t my thing. None of this is my thing. Still, when I notice the pained furrow between his brows, I lean forward and rest a gentle hand on his back, which radiates heat like a furnace.

“When’s the last time you took your meds?” I keep my voice to a whisper in case he’s grimacing in his sleep.

“Can’t remember,” he slurs without opening his eyes. “Noon, maybe?”

That was six hours ago, so he’s overdue for his painkillers and possibly his anti-nausea pill.

“Are your meds in the bathroom?”

“Kitchen.” He starts to push himself up, and I press my hand between his shoulder blades to guide him back down.

“It’s okay. I’ll find it.” I stroke a hand down his back when he mutters something nonsensical. He practically melts under my touch, so I do it again. “What else do you need?”

He gestures weakly toward the floor, where a cold pack peeks out from a kitchen towel. I grab it and confirm it’s room temperature. “Something cool sounds good?”

“God, yes,” he says with a long, low groan that I don’t let myself imagine in a different circumstance.

“Okay, I’m going to ransack your house,” I say as I stand. “Stay here.”

“Where would I go, neighbor girl?” He cracks one eye open, flashing me a ghost of a smile, and I can’t resist brushing my thumb gently down the uninjured side of his face. His sleepy little grin widens as he snuggles back into the couch.

He’s a snuggler. It’s adorable. Knocking on his door today was the worst idea ever.

Even if Hugo’s half of the duplex wasn’t the mirror opposite of mine, finding my way around wouldn’t be a problem with the open-plan main-floor setup. His kitchen is exactly what I expected: organized, well-stocked, and tidy. An array of pots and pans hangs from a pegboard on one wall, and he’s got an impressive collection of knives in the butcher block, all showing clear signs of use. And it smells… homey, with lovely little hints of sweetness and spice and smoke. Based on the tins and boxes in brands I’ve never heard of lined up along one wall, I’m guessing it’s because he drinks an alarming amount of tea.

The pill bottles are side by side next to the sink, along with a long list of warnings and instructions and a device to check his pupils every couple of hours. So he did see some kind of doctor, and now I know when to take him to the ER: more vomiting, more confusion, different-sized pupils. Oh god, seizures?

I check the freezer, where I find four ice packs in a neat row. The rest of the contents are rigorously stocked, stacked, and labeled, too, and I grin remembering Hugo’s confession at the McEwan scene that he folds his underwear.

Taking out a fresh ice pack, I wrap it in a towel before setting the warm one in its place, then fill a glass with water, grab the pill bottles, and head back to the living room. Hugo’s rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed. The pain lines bracketing his mouth are deeper than they were when I rang his doorbell, so I move quickly to kneel next to his head again.

“Hey.” I rub his shoulder. “Can you sit up for a second? You need to take your pills and drink some water.”

He nods, winces, and pulls himself upright, and I can’t help but notice that even concussed, Hugo flows like water into a sitting position. Jesus, what kind of core strength does he have?

Fighting back an unexpected wave of nerves, I sit next to him on the couch, drop the pills into his hand, and pass him the glass, watching closely as he downs them and swallows the water. When he goes to hand it back, I flick him on the wrist.

“Finish it. You don’t want to be dehydrated on top of everything else.”

“Bossy.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he says it, and I raise my brows in response. “Somebody needs to keep you in line. And while I’m at it, don’t get another one of these anytime soon. Two concussions in a row can scramble your brain permanently.”

“Okay, neighbor girl. No more cranial trauma.”

“Good.” My lips twitch. “Now drink.”