Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Ky
“Easy,” I say the next day as we navigate the couple of steps up to Colt’s front door, my arm around his waist.
“I’m fine,” he says even as he wavers on his feet, exhausted from the flight, from his injuries and his night in the hospital, from the discharge procedures, from the car ride here to his house.
“Yup, you’re fine,” I agree, having dealt with Damon enough when he’s in this mood to know Colt is spouting bullshit. He’s hurting and tired and grumpy about not being able to do what he wants to do when he wants to do it…and that includes climbing stairs on his own.
And I know he’s not just hurting from his injuries—though, he’d be hard-pressed to admit that.
He’s hurting because of his fucking family.
No. Not his whole family.
His parents.
Who didn’t stay after we were herded out of the room so the doctor could do her exam, who didn’t allow Blake to stay—as in, his mom brushed his hand away from the wheelchair controls and took over, directing it out of the hospital.
Blake had texted me on the ride home. And last night. And this morning.
He’d also texted Colt.
But Colt isn’t himself, and as far as I know, he hasn’t texted back.
Hell, from what I’ve seen, he hasn’t so much as looked at his phone from the moment I walked back into his room at the hospital, only Damon trailing me.
His eyes—
Damn, but looking into his eyes had hurt.
Resignation and yearning and pain—so much pain.
I tried to talk to him, but he just brushed me off and went to sleep.
And then Damon had all but carried me out of there and back to the hotel, getting food in me and ordering me to sleep.
Something I only allowed because he promised to go back and sit with Colt.
Which he did, though Colt slept most of the night and was near-silent the rest of it.
This morning, he was still quiet, still not himself, but I figured that was because he was getting the hell out of the hospital.
But he spent the entire flight—Damon having arranged a plane to transport us home and then himself on to join the team afterward—raw-dogging it. No phone. No book. Nothing except his gaze trained outside the window.
Talking only when asked a direct question—like when the police interviewed him before the plane took off.
That interaction was bare facts recited, and short, considering he didn’t see the blow, can’t remember it, and the entire freaking thing was caught on camera and witnessed by twenty-thousand-plus people.
Now, after a silent car ride, he’s doing his best to push me away.
“I am fine,” he mutters after I’ve steadied him.
“Like I said”—leaving him only long enough to shove his key into the lock, to push open the front door—“I know.”
“Then why are you still here?”
I freeze as that lashes through me, a sharp bite of pain.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shoving his free hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”
“I know.” I tilt my head to the house, pushing down the hurt, knowing he’s wrapped up in a tangle of complicated emotions. “Let’s get you settled.”
His eyes hold mine, and he reaches over, cups my jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a shitty couple of days.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”
“Come on,” I say, taking his good hand in mine and drawing him forward. “No sense arguing about it on your porch.”
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it, allowing me to bring him into the house.
Relief loosens my lungs and I guide him to the couch, leaving him only long enough to grab our things from the car and lock up.
“You hungry?” I call as I line up his medications on the counter. “Doc should be coming by in a half-hour to check in on you.”
“I’m fine,” he calls back.
“For the food?” I poke my head into the family room, see him reclined back on the couch, his eyes closed. “Or the checkup by Doc?”
Those eyes open, fix on me. “Do I have a choice?” A beat. “For either?”
My mouth ticks up. “Nope. So? Something small or a full meal? You need to eat something with your antibiotics.”
He shifts with a wince and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I can order something.”
“Colt, honey.” I move over to him, sitting on the coffee table. “I’m here. Let me help you.”
His eyes close, a muscle in his jaw flexes. “I fucking hate this.”
“Being hurt?”
“No. It happens sometimes.”
“Then what?”
He’s quiet for a long time, an eternity it seems like, his eyes drifting away from mine. Then he sighs and says something that breaks my heart, “Needing to rely on someone.”
Because his parents—
Are his parents.
And for all the shit I’ve had in my life, I’ve always had Damon.
Steady, solid.
Colt has that with Blake, but it’s different—Blake needs so much more help and he can’t exactly tell his parents to fuck off and strike out on his own, not without a bunch of extra layers of complications.
So no, Colt’s not used to someone looking after him.
It makes him uncomfortable in a way I understand, in a way I can empathize with.
But also, I haven’t come this far, haven’t finally let a man into my heart only to back off or be the only one who takes, whose needs come first.
That’s not I want from our relationship.
And it’s not what either of us need.
So, right now, I give us, give him a little of what I’m good at.
Connection and softness and…me.
“You know, I couldn’t figure it out at first.”
His brows drag together. “Figure what out?”
“Why everyone treats me like I’m breakable…except you.”
Because even when he goes slow, when he’s careful to not push me too far, when he waited—so damned patient—for me to be open to the connection between us, he’s never looked at me like I’m damaged goods.
“That’s because you’re not breakable.” He takes my hand in his, squeezes lightly. “You’re so damned brave, Teach.”
I lean in, and God, even with the stitches and the bruises and the brace on his shoulder he’s so damned beautiful. “Brave enough to want you?”
“Baby”—he draws me down a little closer to him—“one more second of looking at me like that and I’m done being patient.”