“Fine,” I roll my eyes. “Stay there.” Dressing quickly, I go to the hall closet and pull out a trash bag and the first aid kit. I bring it back to the bedroom and spray his gash with antiseptic. I can’t help my giggle when he lets out a whimper as I press a bandage to his wound before ordering him to hold it.
“Big baby.”
“It fucking hurts,” he says, his posture wary as he holds the bandage to his head.
“I’ll get you something to put on.”
He grips my hand. “No.”
“This isn’t debatable, Tobias.”
Downstairs, I head to Roman’s bedroom and check his medicine cabinet, grabbing a couple of Vicodin. Searching his drawers, I find some unused boxers and a T-shirt before I stop in the kitchen. Back in my bedroom, I hand him the pain killers and juice. He swallows them down before studying the clothes in my hands—the clothes belonging to a man he despises.
“They’re clothes. You can’t walk around naked.”
“Says who?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The boxers are still in the package.”
He doesn’t say a word as he opens it and slips them on, along with the T-shirt. I extend the napkin holding the quick sandwich I made, a croissant and swiss.
“Here, eat this, a Frenchman’s delight.”
“Not hungry.”
“Eat, or you’ll pass out.”
He takes it from me and shoves half the croissant in his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re acting like a brat. Like Mom just forced you to get a buzz cut. Just say thank you. You won’t hate yourself as much.”
It’s faint, but I hear it when I switch off the bathroom light. “Merci.”
“So, is this some sort of scare tactic? Because I’m leaving soon.”
“No, this is a rough day.”
“Retaliation?”
He sips his juice, completely ignoring the question.
“You know, your brother did the same shit.” I roll my eyes. “I wonder where he got it from.”
I pull my comforter down and sort my pillows while he finishes his sandwich. He sits there as if he’s confused about how he got here. I am too. Instead of questioning it, I lay our used towel on the pillow next to mine and gesture for him to lay down.
Instead, he stands, crumbling up the napkin in his hand while walking into the bathroom. A second later, I hear running water.
“What are you doing?” I ask from the edge of the bed.
“Brushing my teeth.”
“Are you serious?”
I hear a mumble around the toothbrush, “Swiss cheese breath is the worst.”
Laughter bursts from me. “You better not be using my toothbrush.”
“There was a spare in the cabinet.”
A few seconds later, I see the flicking of the light once, twice, three times before he climbs into bed with me.
“Better?” I press my lips together.
He rolls his eyes. “Laugh it up.”
When my smile dies, we lay there silent, facing the other on our pillows.
“Why did you come here? I’m not your girlfriend.”
“No, you aren’t.” His voice is wary, as is his stare, he’s exhausted.
“So, are you going to answer the question?”
“No.”
Up close, I take in the slight wave of his damp hair, his thick midnight black lashes, the smooth planes of his face, his mouth. His top lip a more masculine cupid’s bow, slightly smaller than the bottom. He returns my stare, his eyes roaming my face, and equally as probing.
I’m the first to speak.
“What’s your game?”
He fires right back. “What’s yours?”
We lay there, silent, eyes challenging.
“I won’t ever be able to believe a word you say, Tobias.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“So why bother, after treating me like total shit, you suddenly have a conscience? Suddenly I’m worthy of,” I wave my hand around, “whatever the hell you’re doing?”
“Treating you with respect? Like I’ve wronged you. Like I’ve mistreated you horribly and I’m apologizing for it? I’m not a monster, Cecelia.”
“Debatable.”
He sighs. “As I said, I don’t expect you to believe me.”
“I don’t, and I won’t.”
His eyes dart past my shoulder, a deep line forming between his brows.
“Are you okay?”
He focuses back on me.
“Te soucies-tu vraiment de moi?” Do you really care about me?
“Tobias, I’m not fluent.”
He clears his throat, but the question seems to pain him. “Do you really care?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“You should hate me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You want to, but that’s not who you are. You want to believe the best in people.”
“Is that so wrong?”
“No,” he swallows. “It’s not.”
“Just bad for business,” I conclude.
A faint dip of his chin before his eyes gloss over.
I lean in, unable to help my smile. “Pills kicking in, huh?”