Two days, and such a drastic difference.
"You had goose bumps," she says quietly. "I figured you were cold."
"I'm not just talking about the blanket. Why are you doing any of it?"
"Because you're hurt. You were just shot, Naz. Just yesterday. You shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet, much less trying to walk around like you're fine."
"But I am," I say. "I'm fine, Karissa. It's not the first time this happened to me."
"I know."
"And it probably won't be the last, either," I continue. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for longer than you've been alive. I don't need you to pretend to give a shit about me now just because I'm injured, because I'll heal, sweetheart. I'll be just as good as new, with or without your pity."
She pulls her hands away, hurt flashing across her face that dissolves quickly in a barrage of anger. Narrowed eyes focus on me as she clenches her hands into fists on her lap. "Do you have to be such an asshole? I'm just trying to help."
"Why?"
"Because you're hurt," she says again. "And regardless of what you think, it's not pity, or whatever the hell else you want to call it. Maybe you think you don't need anyone, and maybe you don't… I don't know… but that doesn't mean you don't deserve someone. You shouldn't have to be alone or take care of yourself right now, not when someone else can do it for you."
"Why would you do it? Why would you help me?"
"Because it's the right thing to do."
I stare at her as I mull over those words. She stares back for a moment before cracking, looking away as she shakes her head. She starts to stand up when I let out a resigned sigh. We're at an impasse, and we're never going to break it if one of us doesn't give.
One of us meaning me.
She's conceding as much as she can.
"It's not your fault," I say quietly, my words drawing her attention back to me. Her brow furrows as I continue. I haven't told her who shot me... I haven't told anybody. But I can feel the shame wafting off of her, regardless. "If you're doing this out of some twisted sense of guilt, if you think it's because you owe me…"
"It's not that," she says quickly, although the tone of her voice tells me it is, at least partially. "I thought I was watching you die, Naz. That's not something I want to go through again. And I know you don't trust me. I don't know if you'll ever trust me again, but I'm not trying to trick you. I'm not trying to hurt you, or do anything except help. I just want to help you. That's it. Can you just… give me the benefit of the doubt?"
I have half a dozen reasons not to trust her, not to believe a single word she says. History certainly is on my side when it comes to that family. But I just told her this wasn't her fault. Holding it against her now would make me less of a man than I try to be… less of a man than I want to be.
Leaning my head back again, I close my eyes, drawing on her words from just days ago about the coffee machine. "Thank you for the blanket, Karissa. I appreciate it."
Give and take, I remind myself. There has to be give and take.
"You're welcome." Her voice is quiet. I feel her legs brush against mine, get a whiff of her fragrant perfume as she shifts closer, seconds later feeling her soft lips against my cheek. "Sweet dreams."
Sweet dreams. It's a nice sentiment.
But my dreams are never sweet.
I only have nightmares.
Memories.
The same one, over and over, time and time again.
The pain.
The anguish.
The gunshots.
Bang.
BANG
I drift off to sleep again right there on the couch, in and out of consciousness the rest of the night, trying to shift position, trying to get comfortable, but there's no relief to be found. Something wakes me around dawn, early morning sunshine streaming through the windows and illuminating the wooden floor, casting everything around me in gold tones. I'm shivering, heart racing wildly, a cold sweat coating my body from head to toe.
I need a shower.
And a fucking shave.
Something.
I lay completely still, straining my ears to try to riddle out what disturbed me, swallowing back the swell of nausea when I realize it was the front door.
It opened, and closed, the locks jingling. Soft footsteps descend upon the house, restrained like someone is trying to sneak from the living room into the kitchen, things shifting around, drawers opening.
Forcing myself up, I grasp the bandaged wound on my side, holding it like I'm trying to hold myself together. I slowly make my way out of the den, on alert, vision fuzzy and head foggy.
I'm a fucking mess.
If someone tried to attack me right now, they'd take me down easily. My blinks are accentuated by blackness, my reactions slowed.
I quietly make my way toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway, a sense of relief calming the tension in my muscles when I see it's Karissa. Just Karissa. She's dressed in a pair of cut-off jean shorts, barely covering her curvy backside, and a white tank top that's downright sinful.