He doesn’t look up for a long second. Then he does, and I can see his face is strained. “Just wanted to see you.” The words tremble from his lips. I realize he’s holding his arm at the elbow.
“What happened?”
He shuts his eyes again. “Nothing,” he says thickly.
A line of something dark is on the left side of his face. I move in closer, and I realize it can only be blood.
I start to put my arm around his back, to pull him to me, but he makes a groan-like sound before I get to that.
“No, don’t. Sorry.” He just stands there breathing in these shallow breaths, and tears fill my eyes.
I look him over, from the bleeding spot by his brow to the way he’s holding his arm. His face is slack and tense at once, the way that people look when they’re in pain, and I can tell he really is because of how he’s panting.
“My parents aren’t home. Let’s go down to my room. Okay?”
He shuts his eyes again, wincing, almost groaning I think.
“It’ll be fine. Come on.” I rest my fingers lightly at his hip, urging him to turn around and come with me to the elevator. He’s definitely shaken up. In the warm yellow glow of the elevator, I see sweat along his hairline. His face is pale, and there’s a bleeding gash between his temple and his eyebrow on the left side.
When we step out of the elevator and move toward my door, a hoarse sound comes from him. I wait for his eyes to find mine, for him to tell me he’s okay—the way he always tries to, even if he isn’t—but he doesn’t even look at me. I hurry with the door and hold it for him, and he steps inside.
“Come with me, il mio cuore.”
His eyes lift up to mine and his lips twitch at the corners.
I put my hand lightly at his lower back again. I want to hug him so badly, but I don’t know where he’s hurt. My heart pounds as we walk toward my room.
I open the door and he steps inside, but just one step and then he stops.
“You want to lie on the bed?”
He nods. He looks at the bed and then at me, and I realize there’s blood on his shirt.
“The sheets don’t matter.” When he doesn’t move, just stands there with his eyes closed and his teeth clenched, holding his arm, I peel the duvet back and set a pillow under where his hurt arm might fall.
“Come here.”
He stretches out on the bed without my help, panting as he gets onto his back.
“You want some more pillows?”
“No.” His left arm is on the pillow I put down before. I think I’ll get another one anyway, but he rasps, “Beside me.”
I’m not sure at first, but then his eyes open and I can tell—he wants me to lie down beside him.
I do, and he leans his head toward me. His right arm goes behind my neck, and I ask, “Where can I touch?”
“Anywhere but the shoulder.”
I run my fingers over his abs, and he nods once, so I wrap a light and careful arm around him.
He lets a breath out, and I can feel him relax. He sort of pants, “Please,” and my stomach flip-flops. “Please what, sweetheart?”
“Don’t let go.”
Tears spill down his cheeks, and I’m so stunned, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.
His bicep, behind my neck, flexes a little, and I feel him try to hug me with that arm. I turn myself toward him, wrap my arm around his lower abs, and press myself against his unhurt side.
There’s a little tremor, followed by more deep breaths. I want desperately to know what happened, but I can tell he’s trying to get a hold of himself. I hug him a little tighter and kiss his chest beside his pec.
“It’s okay, sweet baby. I’ll take care of you.”
His body trembles and he’s breathing harder for a second. Then he makes a noise that’s half groan and rasps, “I think my shoulder’s…broken.” He inhales. “Don’t look at me.” His voice is raw, and I can hear more tears there.
“I love you,” I whisper.
He breathes in big gulps for a minute, then some longer, slower breaths. Finally he whispers, “I love you more, la mia rosa. Ti amo più di tutte le stele nel cielo.”
“Can I kiss your cheek?” I whisper.
He inhales again and lets the breath out. “Okay.”
I kiss his damp cheek, kiss his temple. When I see the cut up close, my eyes well, and he looks away. I kiss his hair and rub my fingers lightly over his head.
“What happened,” I whisper.
He shuts his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” I say. “You know you can trust me.”
“I don’t have to tell you.” His words are so soft, they’re barely audible. “You already know.”