39. Arlo
When I blink the world into view, everything is different. The blinding lights are out. Only a sliver of light seeps in underneath the door from the hallway. The incessant beeps and chatter have died. Only a whisper of them carries from a distance. The antiseptic smell that burned my nose is gone. In its place is the heady musk of Hota’s skin.
I inhale him and try to focus. My eyes went blurry after impact. A slight fuzz still hangs around the edges of things, like the chair across the room. It’s empty.
Panic seizes my throat in an angry grasp.
I shift to sling my feet off the side of the hospital bed. Pain lances my vision. Just as soon as the pain comes, it’s overridden.
“Hota,” I whisper his name, not to wake him. Mostly, I say it to reassure myself he’s here.
When I could no longer keep hold of my consciousness, he’d been in a heated debate with the nurse about his right to be here. That he was my family and wasn’t leaving me alone.
I’d wanted to tell her as much, but my mouth wouldn’t work. Neither my eyes nor my hands were functional. I just blipped. Total system reset.
I flex my fingers. They respond, sliding toward Hota’s head. The silk of his hair meets my fingertips. I drag my thumb over his temple.
My fierce protector. My best friend. My guy.
Mine.
I slide my fingers fully into his hair and let unconsciousness drag me back under.
When I wake next, it’s nearly as peaceful.
My hand is being lifted from my body.
The frantic beat of my heart rattles through my chest. I jerk against the pull. A feral shout leaves my rusty voice.
He’s back. He’s got me. No. No. No.
My eyes fly open, and I see a nurse, but my mind is so fucked.
“Hey.” Hota shoots across my body. He grabs the nurse’s arm and yanks it off me. “He doesn’t like to be touched, especially without notice and especially with so little care.”
“Why they let you stay, I have no idea.” The old woman huffs. “You’ve been nothing but a menace. Shushing us. Second-guessing us.” She jerks her hand away.
I open my mouth to speak, hoping my voice will hold, but the nurse backs toward the door.
“I don’t have to put up with this.” She lifts her chin.
“Asking consent is not difficult.” Hota stands by my side. “It should be common practice. You obviously don’t like it when someone grabs you without consent.”
The woman hisses a breath. “I need to get his vitals.”
“Then ask him if you can.” Hota crosses his arms over his chest. He looks disheveled in a way I haven’t seen him in a while. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his clothes, the clothes he had on at the field, are rumpled. His hair is loose from its knot and falling over his right eye and down his neck.
The school has a haircut policy, but since he’s the big shot wrestling champ, no one messes with him about it.
The nurse clears her throat. “I need to check your vitals.”
“Questions usually have question marks at the end.” Hota glowers.
I don’t say anything. The edge of panic still has my insides jittering and my throat tight.
“And children usually have manners,” she snaps.
“Good thing I’m not a child.” His eyes, usually so kind and inviting, glint like barely crusted lava. Deadly.
“May I please check your vitals, Mr. Judge?” She sounds like the child in the equation.
I hold out my arm, knowing that nodding wouldn’t feel good because of the pounding in my skull.
She’s careful not to touch me more than is required. “How’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Four,” I lie, not wanting to scare Hota.
“Be honest.” His lips purse, and his head shakes with disapproval.
“Seven,” I groan.
“You’re due for more pain meds in two hours.” She heads for the door.
“Thank you,” Hota calls after her.
She doesn’t stop or acknowledge him in any way.
“Childish,” he whispers after she pulls the door closed.
His eyes meet mine. They’re the soft, knowing ones I love.
“Thank you,” I rasp.
“Anything you need. It’s yours.”
He says it with everything he has, so I know it’s true. Just as I know I don’t deserve his devotion. Just as I know I treasure it, him with everything I have. I just hate how little of me there is left.
Hota sits in a small chair that’s touching the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, and I remember its softness on my fingers.
“How much trouble are we in?”
“Of course, you’re worried about that right now.” He reaches behind him to a small table, grabs a cup with a straw, and holds it to my lips.
I take a pull, and the water hits my belly like a hammer.
“A little bit at a time, but we have to get water in you.” He sets the cup down and faces me. “Don’t worry about school right now. Bridgeport is more concerned about the hairline fracture in your skull than anything else.”
No wonder it hurts to move my eyes.
I reach a hand toward him.
Hota’s eyes go wide. His jaw drops. Still, he shifts quickly, sliding his palm under mine.
“Thank you, Hota.”
“Fuck.” He blinks back the emotions crowding in. His head shakes. “If I’d just left with you?—”
“You did.” I swallow. “You were right there. Right behind me.”
“I would’ve rather been in front of you.” His other hand comes up and brackets my hand.
“No.” I squeeze his hand, drinking in the comfort he offers freely after I’ve forced it away for so long. “I would take the hit every time.”
“Which only makes me want to take it more.”
My throat burns with unshed tears. “I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you deserve way better than me.” He grins. “But I’ll have to do.”