Kat:
I drove him home.
He didn’t say much. Just stared out the window, one arm cradled against his chest, knuckles scabbed, jaw clenched against the pounding in his head and the ache in his bones. I glanced over at him every few minutes, my chest tight with guilt.
He was a mess. Bruised, hungover, raw from the inside out—and I had done that. I hated it. Hated knowing I’d caused that storm behind his eyes. I didn’t mean to shatter him. I was just scared.
But love doesn't wait around for perfect timing.
When we got home, I closed the door behind us and turned to him. He swayed on his feet, so I helped him out of his cut, eased the ruined T-shirt over his head. My fingers brushed the angry purple bruises on his shoulder, the road rash carved into his side. He hissed but didn’t pull away.
