Chapter Four #2
First bite burned his mouth—I could see it in the way his tongue darted out, the hitch in his jaw—but he didn’t stop, just shoveled it in slow and steady. After a few minutes, the color started coming back to his face.
I watched him, arms crossed, not moving from my post by the fridge. Maybe I made it worse by hovering, but I wasn’t about to apologize. Not when he looked like a pile of wet laundry dumped on my best chair.
He swallowed a mouthful, then took the pills and chased them with water. His eyes darted up, wary. “So what’s the plan?” he said, voice gone hoarse. “You my parole officer now or did I just sign up for a sleepover?”
I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and took a seat across from him. The table between us was scarred with old burn rings and ink stains—history of every meal and midnight project I’d ever worked here.
“You’re not going home tonight,” I said.
He let out a little huff, but didn’t argue. “And tomorrow?”
“We’ll see if you make it to tomorrow first.”
He bristled, poked at a potato chunk. “You always this dramatic, Moxley?”
“Only when I’m babysitting,” I said. It was meant to needle, but also to soften the edge. He’d always liked a fight, and I was happy to give him one if it got him fed.
He finished the soup and scraped the bowl, then set it down with a thunk. The painkillers must’ve hit, because his shoulders dropped and the lines on his face eased, just a little.
“Thanks,” he said, voice almost shy.
I shrugged. “You done bleeding? Then get in the shower.”
He blinked, not moving.
I stood and jerked my thumb toward the hall. “Second door. Towels on the rack.”
He stared, then got up, shuffling past me, but not before muttering “Yes, sir” under his breath.
I watched him go, every part of me wanting to follow, to see if he’d actually do what he was told. Instead, I cleared the bowls and wiped down the table. The little acts of order calmed the thrum in my chest, the one that had been ticking over since the phone call from Knox.
The shower kicked on, pipes rattling in the walls. I set out a stack of towels, then dug through my closet for something clean he could wear. He’d never fit my jeans, but an old pair of sweats and a flannel should be close enough. I set them on the edge of the bed.
I lingered in the hallway, staring at the closed bathroom door.
Through the panel, I heard the groan of pipes and the slap of water on tile.
I imagined the shock of hot water against Bo’s bruised skin, the sting over every fresh cut and purpled mark.
He’d stand there as long as he could, I bet, letting the heat burn out the ache.
When the shower finally cut off, the apartment filled with a thick fog of steam, even out in the hall.
The door opened and Bo emerged, towel around his waist, water still dripping from his hair.
His face was scrubbed clean, the bruising uglier in the harsh light but his eyes clearer.
He clocked the clothes on the bed and paused, something like embarrassment flickering across his face.
“These yours?” he said, picking up the shirt. He sniffed it, then shrugged and started pulling it on.
“They’re clean,” I said, voice sharper than I meant.
He flinched, but didn’t reply, just dressed with an efficiency that said he was used to being seen naked and had long stopped caring.
The shirt swallowed him, sleeves rolled up twice and still past his wrists. The sweatpants hung low on his hips, drawstring tight. He looked ridiculous—like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet.
It did nothing to lessen the pulse behind my ribs.
He stood there, towel around his neck, then looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “What, you want me to fold the towels too?”
I jerked my head toward the living room. “Get on the couch. I’ll bring out a blanket.”
He collapsed into the cushions, exhaling like he’d just run a marathon. His feet stuck out past the end, his hands fiddled with the edge of the flannel.
“You want a beer?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised. “Thought you said to stick to water.”
“One won’t kill you.” I grabbed two bottles from the fridge, twisted off the caps, and handed him one.
He took it, sipped, then cradled it in both hands. “Thanks, Jo.”
I sat across from him, beer in hand, and waited. He stared at the ceiling for a while, lost in thought.
After a minute, he said, “You ever think about just leaving? Just packing a bag and never coming back?”
I shook my head. “Where would I go?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Sometimes I get the urge to ride until I run out of road.”
I watched him, saw the way his knuckles whitened on the bottle. “Running don’t solve shit.”
He snorted. “You would say that.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “You done running?”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said maybe, just for tonight.
I tossed him a blanket, thick and soft, the kind that used to live at the foot of my parents’ bed. He wrapped it around himself, cocooned, and let his head drop back onto the pillow.
I left him there, lights low, the soft hum of the old fridge the only sound. I went to the bedroom, but I didn’t sleep. I listened for every shift on the couch, every breath. Halfway through the night, I got up and checked on him.
He was curled up, mouth open, breathing steady. In the moonlight, the bruises were only shadows, the hard lines of his face softened to something almost sweet.
I stood there, watching, and let myself imagine what it would be like if I never had to let him go again. Tomorrow, he’d be gone. Tomorrow, he’d start running again, or the Valley would come calling and I’d have to take him home to Knox and the rest.
But tonight, he was mine to keep safe.
And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
He woke at dawn, or maybe he never really slept. The sky outside the windows had gone gray, the light thin and sharp as a razor. Bo padded across the room, still in my flannel and sweats, the cuffs flapping past his wrists and ankles.
He stopped in the kitchen, blinked twice at the coffee already waiting for him, and then shot me a look that hovered between suspicion and awe. “Did you even sleep?”
I shook my head, watching the way his hair stuck up at odd angles. “Did you?”
He shrugged, then made a face when it pulled at the bruise under his eye. “Dreamed I got hit by a truck.”
“Not far off.”
He poured himself a cup, careful to keep both hands on the mug. The silence between us wasn’t awkward, just a low, constant thrum—like the world wanted to see which of us would break first. I let him drink, watched the way his shoulders unknotted with every swallow.
He set the cup down and glanced toward the bedroom door. “You serious about the bed? ‘Cause I can just crash on the couch again.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re gonna break it?”
He opened his mouth, some smartass retort on the tip of his tongue, then shut it. “Never slept in a bed that nice before.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I jerked my head toward the bedroom and said, “Get in. Doctor’s orders.”
He tried to protest, but the sound died as soon as I gave him the look—the one that said don’t push me, not when I’m trying to help. He shuffled down the hall, muttering under his breath, then sat on the edge of the mattress, running his hand over the old patchwork quilt.
I followed, stopping in the doorway. The morning light lit up the room, washing out all the old scars on the walls, making it feel cleaner, safer.
Bo looked up at me, blinking slow. “You gonna stand there and watch?”
“Until you get under the covers, yeah.”
He snorted, but pulled the blanket back and slid in, wincing at the way his ribs protested. The flannel bunched up around his shoulders, making him look younger, almost untouched.
I moved closer, tugged the quilt up over his chest. My fingers brushed his cheek, feather-light, but I let them linger a second longer than necessary. The skin was hot, the bruise soft under my touch. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in.
I let my hand fall to his shoulder, squeezed once. “Sleep. You need it.”
He blinked, then nodded, eyelids already fighting to stay open. He mumbled something that might have been “Thanks,” but it faded into a sigh as the drugs and the exhaustion finally won.
I stood there, watching the way his chest rose and fell, the steady cadence of his breathing. He’d fight it, I knew, try to wake up every hour just to make sure I hadn’t left him alone. But for now, he was still, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the smell of clean sheets.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, just out of arm’s reach, and let myself look at him.
The raw edge of his jaw, the curve of his lashes, the way the borrowed shirt rode up to show a strip of bare skin at his hip.
I wanted to touch it, to press my thumb to the spot and leave a mark that would last longer than the bruises.
I didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, I waited until I was sure he was gone, deep into whatever dreamless dark his brain could muster. Then I stood, tucked the blanket tighter around him, and turned off the light.
Before I left the room, I leaned in and let my voice go soft, lower than a whisper. “You’re safe,” I said, words for him and maybe a little for myself.
He didn’t answer, but I knew he heard.
I stood there longer than I should’ve, staring at him. The sound of his breath filled the room, slow and even, the only proof that anything in this world ever healed right.
I wanted—Christ, I wanted—to climb in beside him and curl around that battered body until neither of us remembered what it meant to hurt. But I kept my hands to myself. Control: the one thing my old man ever managed to drill into me.