Off taking care of your boy.
He doesn’t ask where we’re going, even though it should be obvious. Instead, it’s like he just follows me blindly down the stairs, out the door, across the space between the buildings, over to the boys’ dorms. I put in the code myself, letting us inside.
When we get to the fourth floor, something clicks.
He stops in the middle of the hall, eyes cast to the side. “Uh…”
“What?” I whisper, looking nervously up and down the hall.
“It’s a fucking mess in there.”
Pausing, I slowly assure him, “That’s okay,” but when he meets my gaze, his are full of a strange sort of dread. When he pushes open the door, I see why. “…oh.”
He sighs. “Yeah.”
It looks like a bomb went off in here—if there were such things as takeout-beer-laundry bombs. I step carefully over a textbook, face down, pages all crumpled beneath the hard cover. His lacrosse equipment is strewn about the room, and even though the floor looks like a tornado ripped through, every flat surface is oddly clean. It takes me a moment to understand what this is.
I purse my lips at him. “Had a bit of a tantrum, huh?”
He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “A bit.”
Nodding, I survey the room, but quickly decide to ignore it. This can’t be fixed tonight. Instead, I nod my head toward the bathroom, waiting for him to follow me. At least in there, I’m relieved to discover, everything is still in its place.
“Sit,” I demand, opening my bag to retrieve the first aid kit.
He doesn’t sit on the toilet like I expect him to. He slides up on the counter, reaching over the sink to crack the window. I don’t protest when he pulls a pack of rumpled cigarettes from his pocket, pinching one between his lips and lighting it.
“My mom’s doc already looked me over,” he says, eyes tracking the way I set out the antiseptic wipes, bandages, and ointment. “No concussion. No stitches. Just some bruises. Superficial bullshit.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “It’s going to feel a lot less superficial in the morning. Take these.” I hand him two pain relievers, watching as he swallows them down with a handful of water from the tap. “Now stay still.”
The cut on his cheek isn’t deep enough for stitches—the doctor was right about that—but it’s still caked with dried blood and debris. I tear the package to the antiseptic wipes and rub one over the open wound.
“Son-of-a—” he winces back, brow furling. “Jesus, that always hurts.”
I run the wipe over it again. “Then maybe you should stop always needing it.”
We’re silent after that. I check out his eye, wondering what the likelihood of him having ice in that kitchenette might be, before moving to his bloody knuckles. He hisses just as badly when I run the wipes over them. For someone who clearly gets some level of gratification from getting into fights, he sure is a big baby when it comes to the aftercare.
Once I’ve tended to his wounds to the best of my abilities, I put all the supplies away.
And then I start undressing.
He watches me shuck off my shirt, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “The fuck?”
“Take off your clothes,” I tell him, nodding to his pants. “And where did your shirt even go?”
He obeys me like someone paying very little mind to why, fingers going to the button on his jeans as he watches me shimmy my pants and underwear off. “Couldn’t find it fast enough. We had to bail.” Even though his pants are undone, he’s still sitting on the counter, looking at me with a baffled expression.
Naked, I stand there and nudge at his knee. “Come on, get down.” He complies in a slow, stilted way, tossing his cigarette butt in the sink before sliding to his feet. There aren’t any protests when I reach out toward his hips, tugging his pants and boxers down his legs.
I pause, staring at his erection in disbelief.
“You’re the one who wanted to get naked,” is his weak defense. “The whole bloody and beaten thing turn you on or something?”
“Yep,” I answer tonelessly. “In fact, I’m about to get soaking wet for you.”
Understanding dawns on his face when I reach in the shower, turning the knob with a jerk of my wrist.