AN-
Nico gets a shower,cuz he's like...ewwwwwwwww.MY BOY DESERVES BETTER!
YA HEAR THAT?!
MY BOY DESERVES BETTER!!
NICO'S POV
As soon as Will left the room, that familiar bubbling sensation ignited deep in my stomach-slow and sour at first, like acid creeping up from nowhere. It felt like my insides were turning on each other, clawing at the walls of my gut, trying to escape. I tried to swallow the bile down, breathing through my nose, telling myself it was fine. I'd only had three spoonfuls of oatmeal. I hadn't even liked it.
But the more I tried to hold it down, the worse it got.
My throat burned. My body trembled. My lungs pulled in too much air all at once. I stood too fast.
I barely made it to the bathroom.
The hallway spun. I didn't even know where the bathroom was exactly, i had seen it on the way to my room and made a mental note, knowing something like this would happen.I gripped the wall for balance, shoving the door open with my shoulder. The light inside was too bright, a pale yellow that buzzed above me like it hated me. The window was cracked, but the blinds were drawn, fluttering just slightly in the breeze. It smelled like hospital soap and old steam.
I shut and locked the door behind me.
I dropped to my knees, flung the toilet lid up, and folded over it. My ribs heaved once,twice-and then I was retching. The oatmeal came up in clumps, warm and awful, and then it was just acid. Just bile and spit and salt. It felt like something inside me was trying to escape through my mouth, and gods, I would've let it if it meant this would stop.
Tears stung my eyes. I hated that. I hated crying more than anything.
But I couldn't stop. My body kept convulsing, empty and desperate and out of my control. I held onto the porcelain like it could anchor me to this plane, like maybe if I held tight enough I wouldn't fall apart completely.
My stomach clenched again and I dry-heaved into the toilet, but there was nothing left. Just the sound of air and spit and my body trying to hurt itself in any way it could.
When it finally stopped, I didn't move. Couldn't.
My forehead rested against the toilet seat. I was shivering now, soaked with sweat, my chest still made like it hadn't realized we were done.
I hated myself more than I had in weeks.
I flushed the toilet with my weak and shivering hands. My fingers barely responded -they felt numb, like they belonged to someone else. I couldn't even feel anything anymore. Just this dull, crushing weight in my chest. I was so tired.
I wanted to give up. Right there. Right then.
The shower in front of me looked... inviting. Almost holy.
The glass was fogged, the tiles lined with beads of condensation. I imagined the warmth. the soft water running down my back, washing everything away-every scar, every scream, every memory. It felt like a dream, the kind that fades when you blink too hard. Still, I decided I was going to have a shower. I needed to. I didn't deserve it, but l needed it.
I started by peeling off my shirt and jacket, the fabric clinging to my skin like regret. The effort alone felt like climbing a mountain. I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink and immediately wished I hadn't.
I looked... dead.
My ribs jutted out like the frame of a collapsed tent. Every bone was visible, mapped in sharp shadows under my greyish, uneven skin. There was a stark, unnatural tan line across my chest-my torso a sickly pale, while my arms were a dull ash, like l'd been carved from stone and left out to rot. Years of grime, battle, sweat, and silence clung to me. Layers of filth that refused to be forgotten.
Why are you like this?
The scars on my forearm stared back at me. Reminders of all the things i did to myself when i was younger. Some were jagged, messy from the times I hadn't cared to be careful. Others were disturbingly neat. Clean lines. Like I wanted someone to see them, even if I never let them.
A timeline of pain etched into my skin.
I let my arms fall to my sides. I itched at the marks automatically, trying not to look at them-like if I didn't acknowledge them, they'd go away. They didn't. They never did. I tried to peel off my jeans next, but they clung to me like a second skin-stiff and filthy, stuck to my thighs, knees, calves. The seams tore as I yanked them down, my fingernails digging into the fabric until they split. The scratch on my arm from Lycaon throbbed, pulsing in protest as I moved my shoulders. It felt like every part of me was screaming.
My clothes reeked. Of sweat, dirt, rot. Mold. Regret. I had lived in them. Slept in them. Bled in them. Survived in them. And now I couldn't stand to be near them.
You're disgusting.
Shame crawled over my skin like bugs. I shoved the clothes into the bin under the sink, burying them beneath clumps of toilet paper like that would somehow hide them. Like I could erase the version of me that had worn them.
Then I stepped into the shower.
The water hit my skin like fire. Warm, almost too warm. I gasped out loud. My body wasn't used to it-like it was trying to reject the idea of comfort. Of care.
The heat stung as it ran over my arms, my chest, my neck. It burned down the hollow spaces where muscle had once lived, where strength had withered. The sensation made me feel real again. And it hurt.
I scrubbed myself raw with my fingernails. I didn't even reach for soap. I just scrubbed. Over and over. My arms. My chest. My thighs. Behind my ears. Dirt peeled away in black streaks, like I was unzipping the outer layer of a corpse. Red marks trailed my body-fresh and angry, like my skin was screaming, why didn't you do this sooner?
I sobbed.
The sound startled me. I hadn't meant to cry.
But once I started, I couldn't stop. The tears poured down, mixing with the water, blending into something silent and pathetic. I'd never felt pain like this— not in Tartarus, not in battle, not even when Bianca died.
I was so tired. So empty. So hollowed-out and broken and miserable that it physically hurt to breathe.
My chest ached. My legs shook. My vision started to blur at the edges, like someone had dimmed the lights inside my skull. I swayed and slammed my palm against the shower wall, the cold tile shocking me back into reality just enough to stay upright.
You deserve this. You deserve every second of this.
Freak.
You ruin everything you touch.
Will is going to find out what you are. He's going to see this mess. And he'll leave, like everyone else.
Eventually-after I don't know how long-I had scrubbed every inch of dirt off of me. I couldn't tell if the water running down the drain was red from heat or from blood. I didn't care.
I turned off the water with shaking fingers and reached for the towel in the cupboard. It was rough and thin, but I Every muscle weak and spent.
Then I realized.
I had nothing to wear.
No clothes.
No hope.
Panic set in instantly. My breath hitched, and my hands clawed at the bin, pulling out the moldy, filthy clothes I had buried. I ripped off the toilet paper, shoved them into the sink, and turned on the tap. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, desperate to make them clean. I scrubbed so hard my fingernails split and started to bleed.
It didn't work.
The stains stayed.
The smell stayed.
The shame stayed.
Eventually I gave up. The clothes sat in the sink, soaked and ruined. Like me.
I sank to the floor, back against the cupboard, towel still clutched tight around my chest. My breathing was shallow.
The room spun again.
I had no strength. No plan. No escape.
What was i going to do?
There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. One that
sent vibrations through me, sharp and sudden like a jolt of electricity under my skin.
"Neeks?"
Shit.
It was Will.
"You okay?" he asked, soft and gentle like he always was.
That voice could stitch up wounds. It made my stomach twist.
He had said he wouldn't be gone for long-but I had hoped he would've stayed away a little longer. Long enough for me to pull myself back together. Long enough to stop crying.
Long enough to not be the wreck I was now. Not like this.
Not for him to witness.
"Yes," I answered, my voice cracking down the middle like a broken windowpane.
Great job, Nico. Definitely not suspicious at all.
I bit my lip, hard. The silence that followed stretched on like a tightrope, and I was dangling. Waiting. Wondering.
"I might need some new clothes though," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I sounded pathetic. Helpless.
Weak.
"Okay, I'll go grab som-"
"I-could I have a long-sleeved shirt?" I cut in quickly, my mouth moving faster than my thoughts. "It's-It's just a bit cold in here," I added, trying to sound casual, but stumbling over the lie.
I didn't need warmth. I needed coverage. I needed armor. I needed to make sure he didn't see the roadmap of mistakes carved into my arms. My sleeves weren't just sleeves-they were shields.
"Sure, Neeks," he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it wasn't weird. Like he didn't notice the cracks in my voice, or the panic I was barely holding back. I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway.
But he hadn't said how long he'd be.
He hadn't said if he was coming back.
My heart started racing. My breath felt shallow again.
What if he wasn't coming back?
What if he couldn't find anything and gave up?
What if he was standing outside the door right now, just smelling the filth on me, the rot of my old clothes, and changing his mind about helping at all?
What if he sees me for what I am and decides I'm not worth saving?
Will wouldn't do that. He wouldn't.
I tried to tell myself that. Over and over again.
He's kind. He's golden. He's the sun.
But even the sun doesn't shine forever. Even the sun has to set. I pulled my knees into my chest. The towel was damp now.
My skin cold where the heat from the shower had faded. I stared at the sink where my old clothes sat, still soaking, still useless. Still me.
The silence was unbearable. I counted the seconds. Sixty.
One twenty.
I rubbed my arm, the one with the Lycaon scratch, careful not to tug at the healing skin. My fingers hovered over the old scars too, the ones I used to make. The ones I couldn't let him see. The ones that still felt too loud, even in silence.
And just as the spiral started to pull me under again, another knock broke through it.
"Hey, Neeks, l've got the clothes," Will's voice came through the door again, still soft, still warm. "I'll uhhh... close my eyes if you want to get them."
My face instantly heated up, and for the first time in hours, it wasn't from shame.
I reached out, slowly, pulling the towel tighter around myself with one hand as I opened the door with the other. I peeked out. Will was standing there, squinting his eyes shut so hard it looked like it hurt. One hand was extended toward me, holding a small bundle of clothes. His other hand was covering his eyes even more, just in case. The gesture was so Will, so respectful and sweet it made my throat ache.
I reached out and grabbed the clothes. Our hands brushed.
His was warm-so warm-and soft, and strong, and I froze for half a second longer than I should've, just memorizing the way it felt.
Then I slammed the door shut.
My face was on fire.
His hands were so soft.
His skin was warm.
What moisturizer does he even use?
I breathed in, trying to ground myself. My heart thumped unevenly in my chest as I looked down at what he'd given me.
There wasn't a long-sleeved shirt, but there was a sweater.
A thick, cozy one. The shirt underneath was plain black and far too big for me, but that was good. The joggers were grey and just as oversized. Plain black boxers, big enough to probably fit both my legs in one hole. Clean socks. Sliders.
Nothing flashy. But all clean. All warm. I wondered what infirmary stash he had gotten them from.
They smelled nice. Really nice. I almost recognized the smell.
Wait..
"Will?" I asked quietly through the door, voice thin.
"Yes?" he answered, a little cautious but still calm.
"Whose clothes are these?" I asked, suspicious now.
"Mine," he replied casually. "Sorry 'bout the size. They probably look better on you though."
..What?
My jaw dropped.
My soul dropped.
I was wearing Will Solace's clothes.
He had given me his own clothes. His shirt. His joggers. His socks.
His underwear.
I was wearing Will's underwear.
I stared at the fabric in my hands like it was made of fire.
I recognized the scent because I had learned it. I'd spent enough time around him-just enough time, even unconsciously, to memorize it. Not on purpose. Not on purpose.
Maybe.
Okay, fine, maybe l'd... sort of... sniffed him once.
Once.
That wasn't weird, right?
I clutched the sweater tighter, pulled it against my chest. It was navy blue, soft like clouds, and the words stitched into the fabric in white said:
CAMP HALF-BLOOD MED BAY - Please Don't Die :)
Of course it did.
I wanted to curl into the floor.
"Be cool. Be cool. Be cool," I whispered to myself as I slowly began to dress. My hands were shaking again -not from weakness this time, but nerves. The black shirt draped past my hips like a dress. The joggers had to be rolled at the waist. The boxers were... well, I just tried not to think about those too hard.
I slid the sweater over my head. It engulfed me. Like a blanket. Like safety.
His scent was everywhere. And I hated how much I liked it.
What was wrong with me?
I sat back down on the edge of the bathtub, fully dressed now in clothes that weren't mine, trying to remind myself to breathe. Trying to ignore how fast my heart was going.
Trying not to think about the scars on my arms under the sleeves, or the fact that Will might've seen how broken I was when l opened that door.
Trying not to let it matter how gentle he was with me.
Trying not to want that gentleness.
Trying not to need him.
I stepped out of the bathroom, my hair still damp from the shower, still knotted and messy though. Will was waiting outside, leaning against the wall. His face lit up when he saw me - I chose to ignore that.
"My clothes look good on you," he said with a smug smile.
I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress the way my face heated up again. His clothes were loose and soft and... comfortable in a way I didn't know how to process. They smelled like him. Still.
We walked back to my room. The window was open even wider now, but the sun was starting to go down. I looked at the clock on the wall - it was 5 p.m. My eyes were starting to droop, heavy with the exhaustion l'd been trying to ignore all day, and I had a feeling Will could tell.
We sat down on my bed, the white sheets cold from the breeze, but I was warm in the new clothes. Too warm. The sweater hung on me like a blanket. It made me feel safe - which was ridiculous, obviously. I didn't want to admit that to anyone. Not even myself.
I fiddled with the thread on the hem of the sweater, tugging at it. My fingers twitched involuntarily when I felt the sharp sting from my shoulder again. I winced in pain as the stitches from the scratches on my shoulder threatened to snap. It constantly felt like someone was pouring boiling hot water over the skin, slow and cruel. I clenched my jaw.
"Neeks, you keep wincing," Will said suddenly, his voice low and soft. "Is there something you aren't telling me about?"
I froze for a second. "I'm fine. It's just my shoulder," I replied dryly, still wincing. I didn't meet his eyes.
"Can I have a look?" he asked.
"No."
The word came out way too fast. I wasn't ready. My heart started pounding in my chest. No no no no no. If I took off the sweater... if he saw...
I panicked. Mv breath caught in my throat, and I pulled the sleeves of the sweater down over my hands like a reflex. I wasn't scared of the shoulder wound. I was scared of the rest. The scars. The ones no demigod monster gave me. I wasn't ready for him to see that part of me. I wasn't ready for anyone to.
I tried to think of a way out, an excuse, anything. "It's fine," I lied again, more quietly this time. "It'll heal."
But Will just looked at me, his brows furrowed, lips pressing together. "Please, Neeks," he said gently. "Just let me take care of you. I'm not going to judge you, I swear. I can tell you're scared of what I'm going to think of whatever's going on under there. But l'm a doctor, it's my job to make people better. I promise."
I wanted to believe him. Gods, I wanted to believe him. But that didn't stop the knot in my stomach or the ache in my chest or the trembling in my fingers as I slowly nodded, reluctant.
I reached up to tug the sweater off, but my arms were too weak, and I struggled to get it over my head. The effort made me wince again.
"Can I-?" Will asked, already reaching forward.
I didn't answer, just gave a tiny nod. He carefully pulled the sweater off over my head, gentle but firm. My hair flopped forward, and I shook it out of my eyes, trying to ignore how exposed I suddenly felt. I crossed my arms tightly over my stomach as if that could hide anything.
Will's eyes widened in shock when he saw the massive wound on my shoulder. It was red, swollen, flaring up like a bonfire. Obviously infected. Obviously lethal if I had left it alone any longer. I watched his face flicker from surprise to alarm to professional focus.
He reached his hand out before looking up at me, meeting my eyes. "Can I...?"
I nodded again, stiffly. His hand was warm, steady as he pressed it gently to my skin. I hissed involuntarily.
"What happened?" he asked, genuinely concerned.
"And who stitched this up?"
I breathed in deeply. Might as well tell him now. "When we were transporting the Athena Parthenos - me, Reyna, and Coach Hedge — we got attacked by werewolves." I paused.
"Werewolves?" Will repeated, like he wasn't sure he heard me right.
"Lycaon and his pack, to be specific." | looked down at my lap, fingers twisting in the fabric of my sweatpants. "I got scratched defending them. We didn't have enough time to properly stitch them up, so Reyna had to rush. She's way better than that most of the time, though."
Will didn't say anything at first. His hands stayed gentle, his fingers prodding carefully around the edges of the wound, feeling for where the worst of the infection had spread.
His eyes met mine again, intense and concerned. "Nico, why didn't you come in sooner? Your shoulder is completely infected. If I hadn't been able to look at it right now, it could've gotten fatal."
He kept feeling around the wound, pressing in different spots to see where I winced. I tried not to, but it hurt — gods, it hurt - and I couldn't stop the way my breath kept hitching or the way my whole body stayed rigid like I was about to be attacked again. I stared at the wall behind him, focusing on a chipped paint spot to stay grounded.
But in the back of my mind, one stupid thought kept looping.
He saw me in his clothes.
He saw me take them off.
He saw too much.
And I was still wearing his underwear. And his shirt. And his socks. What do you mean I'm wearing your clothes? What do you mean I was panicking alone in the bathroom and you handed me something that smelled like home? What do you mean I didn't feel like a disgusting broken thing when I put them on?
I clenched my jaw again, hard, as the panic tried to rise.
I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to close my eyes and forget the way his gaze had softened. Forget how kind he was. Forget how terrifying it was that someone might actually care.
And most of all, I just didn't want him to look any deeper.
Will didn't waste time.
He grabbed the small first aid case he'd brought in earlier, flipping it open on the edge of the bed like he'd done it a thousand times before — because he had. Sterile gauze, antiseptic, gloves, a bottle of something ominously labelled "Iodine Solution," a small medical cloth, forceps, scissors, curved suturing needle, and... gods. A whole roll of bandages.
My stomach churned.
"This is going to hurt," he said calmly, slipping on a pair of gloves like it was
nothing. "And it's probably going to look and smell disgusting. Just so you're not surprised."
Too late.
I watched as he uncapped a bottle and poured antiseptic over a folded cloth. The scent hit first - sharp and clinical
- but it wasn't enough to cover what came next.
The second he gently pressed on the skin near the gash, a line of cloudy yellowish-white pus oozed out like something from a nightmare. It dripped sluggishly down my arm, streaking pink as it mixed with blood. My entire shoulder throbbed under his touch, like it was pulsing with heat from inside. The skin looked stretched and angry, glossy in a way skin shouldn't be.
I gagged.
"I'm sorry," Will said, not looking up from what he was doing. His tone was focused, steady, like he was tuning out everything except the wound. "It has to drain before I can clean it. If it doesn't, the infection won't clear."
I nodded, barely. My jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He reached for a small metal tool - forceps — and gently squeezed the skin again, and this time, pus spurted out in a short, wet burst that hit the cloth with a sick squelch. I had to look away. My entire body flinched, nausea curling tight in my gut.
It smelled awful. Like rot. Like something dying from the inside.
I pressed my fist to my mouth. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up.
Will kept working in silence. He wiped the fluid away with the cloth, folding it over so he always had a clean side, then kept pressing and draining. Some of the infection had turned to a thicker, gluey yellow mess that clung to the edge of the wound and had to be scraped away carefully.
My vision blurred.
I couldn't tell if it was from pain or shame.
He hadn't said anything. Not about the smell. Not about how disgusting it all was. But I could feel it. The repulsion.
How could he not be? I felt like a corpse he was picking apart. A project. A body, not a person.
My throat tightened. I wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain that I didn't mean to be this much of a burden — that I didn't want him to see this. But I couldn't speak. I couldn't even breathe properly.
"Almost there," Will murmured, finally sitting back for a moment. He peeled off the bloodied cloth and replaced it with a clean one soaked in iodine.
The sting was instant. Like my shoulder had caught fire again.
I sucked in a breath so fast it made me dizzy.
"Sorry, sorry," he said automatically, pressing the cloth down a little more gently. "I know. I know. I have to clean every part or it'll just get worse again."
He said it so clinically, like he wasn't kneeling over someone whose body was practically falling apart. Like he wasn't patching together a broken mess.
I risked a glance at his face.
His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly parted, eyes laser-focused on the wound. His lips moved silently, like he was counting under his breath. Not once did he look disgusted.
Not once did he flinch.
And somehow that made it worse.
I looked away again, heat crawling up my neck. He wasn't saying anything, which meant he was thinking it all. I knew how it worked. People were polite until they left the room, and then they said what they really thought.
Will reached for the scissors and carefully snipped the old stitches, one by one. He worked with practiced ease, pulling them out with the forceps and placing them on a clean napkin.
"I'm going to re-stitch it now," he said quietly, maybe sensing I needed the warning. "You're doing really well."
I wasn't. But I didn't correct him.
He threaded the needle and dipped it into something to sterilize it. I squeezed my hands into fists and stared at the ceiling while he began the process. Each puncture of the needle made me flinch, the tug of thread through raw skin more of a pressure than a pain, but still enough to make my stomach twist.
I could feel the blood trickling down my back in slow, warm rivulets. Could feel the sting every time he tied off a stitch and started the next.
His hands never shook.
He didn't speak. Didn't joke. Didn't fill the silence with anything except his steady breathing and the soft scrape of tools on the tray. I could feel the concentration coming off him in waves. He was somewhere else entirely — in healer mode - and all that mattered was the wound.
Not the boy under it.
Not me.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached for the gauze and began wrapping it slowly around my shoulder and chest. The fabric pulled snug against my skin, the compression both painful and comforting. His fingers brushed lightly against my side as he secured the wrap with a pin.
"There," he said softly. "Done."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
His hand lingered on my good shoulder for a second - warm, grounding - and then pulled away. "You're okay, Neeks," he said, voice low, like he didn't want to scare me with the words. "I mean it."
I nodded, eyes still locked on the wall.
But in my head, all I could think was: You saw everything.
You touched everything. You didn't even flinch. Why?
And I wasn't sure which thought was worse - that he wasn't disgusted... or that maybe I didn't want him to be.
My eyes were starting to droop and my vision was starting to blur.
Will noticed. "Tired, are we?" he said teasingly, that familiar sing-song lilt in his voice that made me want to throw something heavy at his head.
I fought the urge to kick him.
"Yes, I am actually. Now if you'll let me go to sleep, that would be very much appreciated," I said dryly, my voice flatter than I meant it to be. Not sharp. Just tired.
Will smiled that smug smile - the one that always made my stomach twist for absolutely no good reason - and stood up, stretching his arms above his head like a tired cat.
His back arched slightly, and - oh gods. His shirt rode up.
Just a little. Exposing a sliver of golden skin and the faint outline of defined abs that looked like they belonged in some Apollo Cabin health brochure.
No, Nico. Ignore that. Ignore him. Ignore his stupid arms.
Ignore his stupid face.
I buried my cheek deeper into the pillow, trying to breathe past the embarrassment, past the way my body tensed and relaxed at the same time. It was so warm under the covers, but not in the same way he had been. I could still feel his soft hands on my skin - even though he'd been wearing gloves, somehow they felt warm. He was warm. He radiated it like a hearth fire, like sunlight through an open window.
Like safety.
It made me feel sick.
And not the bad kind of sick. The good kind. Which was worse.
I tried to ignore the fact that after these three days, I would likely never feel that warmth ever again. This was temporary. He'd done his duty. He'd patched me up, held my arm together when it was falling apart, cleaned the rot from my shoulder like it didn't make him flinch.
And that was it. That was all it was.
It was a different type of warmth than sitting near a fire, or using a hot water bottle on a cold night. It was deeper than that. Thicker. It wrapped around my chest like a blanket I hadn't realized I'd needed until it was already there.
It was like feeling at home, even when you were a thousand miles from anything familiar.
I zoned back in, blinking hard. Will was still in the same spot, just no longer stretching. He was bent over, neatly packing up all the medical stuff he had brought in earlier.
He worked with the same kind of gentleness he'd used on my shoulder - precise, calm, like every vial and bandage mattered. He stood up tall again, adjusting the supplies in his arms like he was cradling something precious. Like he was carrying a baby.
(He was a healer, so the medical equipment were probably like his children.)
"Don't break your kids on the way out," I muttered. My voice came out raspier than I expected.
Will turned, a grin playing on his lips. "I would never. These kids are my legacy." He gave the antiseptic bottle a little pat like it was a toddler that just learned how to walk. "This little guy? Took down an entire rash on a satyr's thigh last month. I'm so proud."
"You're disturbed," I mumbled into the pillow.
"And you are grumpy," he countered, walking over to the window. He closed the curtains with a dramatic flourish, like he was on stage. "Sleep tight, Death Boy."
"Don't call me that."
"You secretly like it," he said. I didn't answer.
He walked over to the door and turned the light off, letting the room dip into soft shadows. For a moment, I thought he was just going to leave, but he paused in the doorway, glancing back. I couldn't see his face clearly, just the shape of him - golden-haired, softly backlit by the hallway.
He didn't say anything.
Not really.
Just, "Goodnight, Nico."
My throat felt tight.
"Goodnight, Will," I whispered, too quiet for him to hear unless he was listening hard.
He shut the door behind him with a gentle click. The silence that followed was sudden and deafening.
I let my head drop to the pillow, and I was immediately asleep.
Or not.
I wanted to sleep.
But something in my chest was too heavy. Too sharp. I couldn't stop hearing the sound of his voice. Couldn't stop feeling the phantom memory of his hands on my shoulder
- steady, warm, not hesitant. Like I hadn't grossed him out.
Like I hadn't been bleeding and infected and disgusting.
But he'd looked at me like I was something worth healing.
And that made everything so much worse.
I curled tighter into myself, one arm slung protectively over my bandaged shoulder, feeling the dull throb of pain still echoing beneath the fresh stitches. The fabric of his borrowed sweater - now folded neatly on the chair - still smelled like him. Citrus and sunlight and clean linen.
I hated it. I hated that I wanted it closer.
I buried my face in the pillow, forcing myself to sleep. If I dreamed, I wanted it to be of nothing. No monsters. No memories. No Will.
Especially not Will.
But even in the dark, I swore I could still feel his hands.
Holding me together.
And gods, I was scared of how much I didn't want him to let go.
AN-
I think I developed them good.
Enjoyy,pookie bears😘😘😘