Chapter 4 A Bad Arrest

He shakes his head slowly. “I’ve already been to the hospital. Can you just grab me some painkillers?”

“Oh, okay, yeah. But did they give you something there? And what kind? I don’t want to—”

“Mia. Please.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. His green eyes are sharp, tired, and done with this conversation. “I’ve been sitting here for two hours. Everything’s locked up. You’re not going to make me overdose.”

I press my lips together. “I could help you stand.”

He lets out a short, breathy scoff, then immediately winces. Serves him right. Dismissing me like that should hurt.

“I’m stronger than I look,” I mutter. “I did gymnastics for ten years. My core strength is probably better than yours.”

It probably isn’t, but I’m tired of being underestimated. Especially when I’m actually trying to help.

“Can you just get the painkillers?” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. Like he’s choosing his tone carefully.

For a second, doubt creeps in. Did he really go to the hospital? Or is this just another case of stubborn-man-refuses-help syndrome?

Fine. I’ll get his stupid painkillers. Then he can brood in peace.

I stride into the bathroom and open the mirror cabinet. Two boxes of paracetamol stare back at me. I grab one and slide out the foil, only one tablet left.

Typical.

Don’t be petty, Mia.

…Actually, no. If he says he’s been to the hospital, I’ll say I’m being cautious.

When I return, he’s still slumped on the sofa, one hand already stretched out, waiting.

“Want some water?” I ask, dropping the foil into his palm.

“No.” His gaze flicks to the single pill. His jaw tightens. “I lost my best friend today. You could try showing a little fucking sympathy.”

The words hit me like a slap.

My chest tightens. My stomach drops. For a moment, I can’t even breathe.

“What?” I whisper.

He tosses the tablet into his mouth and swallows dry, face tightening as he does.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Arrest went bad,” he says flatly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

That’s it. Just that.

I nod, even though my heart is pounding. This isn’t about me. I won’t make it about me.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Then tell me how I can help. Physically.”

He raises an eyebrow looking at me again, slow and assessing.

Heat rushes to my face. “Not,  like that. I mean….. unless you…… no. Sorry. Not like that.”

“I know what you meant,” he says. “Can you get my bag?”

I spin around, relieved for the excuse to move. His black rucksack is leaning against his bedroom door. Of course it is.

As I grab it, my stupid brain betrays me. Even injured and miserable, he looks unfairly good. Broad shoulders. Strong build. Sharp jaw. 

I drop the bag at his feet. He bends forward to unzip it, and freezes.

A low groan slips out of him.

“Fuck.”

I’m back on my knees instantly. “What is it? What do you need?”

I tug the zip open before he can stop me.

He falls back against the sofa, head tipping up, breaths deep and uneven. This isn’t about his face. This is something worse.

Inside the bag are bandages, dressings, medical tape. Okay. Hospital visit confirmed.

At the bottom, I find a crumpled sheet listing medications. The name means nothing to me, which probably means it’s strong.

I pick up a fresh dressing and look at him. “Where else are you hurt?”

“My leg. And my groin.”

Before my brain can overthink it, my hands move. I lift the hem of his shirt.

Blood stains the dressing across his lower stomach, dark and angry. It disappears beneath his waistband.

He doesn’t stop me when I unbuckle his belt. Or when I ease his zip down.

“Can I?” I ask softly.

He exhales and nods.

I slide his trousers down carefully. Another dressing is taped high on his inner thigh, this one cleaner but no less serious.

“Can you…” His voice is rough. “Help me change them? Then I’ll sleep. It should ease up by morning.”

“How deep is it?” I ask, even though I have no idea what I’m doing.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not. If it were, he’d already be shutting me out.

I wash my hands, peel away the old dressings, and work as carefully as I can. He hisses when the adhesive pulls free, but he doesn’t tell me to stop.

By the time I’m done, the painkillers have started to dull the edge. He pushes himself up and heads for his room, slow but steadier.

At the door, he pauses.