WEEK 77: Cross stitch or blanket stitch?

Approaching with caution, I snatch a towel from the rack and apply pressure to the wound. Gunshot, of course. No surprise there. My hands are trembling. I’m nervous. No surprise there either.

This is too close for comfort.

“Cross stitch or blanket stitch?” he asks.

“What?”

“You’ll sew me up just like the good old days, right?”

Every part of me is trembling. Just like the good old days.

“Relax,” he murmurs, tucking a stray lock behind my ear. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

I shouldn’t care what it looks like. I shouldn’t care, period. If love becomes hate, caring becomes obsolete.

In theory.

In reality, I don’t hate him. I can’t. Love isn’t capable of becoming something it’s not. Sure, it can be muddied with resentment and overshadowed by anger, but it doesn’t magically transform into something else. Love isn’t magical. Love is simple.

It simply exists.

A constant pain in the ass.

“Jesus,” he growls, swatting me away. “Don’t press so fucking hard.”

I whip the towel at his stupid head. “Don’t tell me to relax.”

His mouth drops open in disbelief. Then he blinks an illegal set of lashes and chuckles, “Well, that escalated quickly.”

I’m not amused.

And now he’s laughing. Belly laughing. Twitch laughs as he frees his arms one at a time. The bastard continues laughing until he goes to lift them above chest-level and seems to curl in on himself.

With a sigh, I replace our ghetto medical dressing. “Hold this.”

He actually listens for once.

Gingerly maneuvering the shirt over his head, I toss it into the tub and try to smooth down his crazy mop of hair.

It doesn’t cooperate as per usual.

I don’t mind.

He leans back against the counter and grabs my hip to pull me between his legs. The man clearly doesn’t respect personal boundaries.

I don’t mind at all.

Laying his forehead on my shoulder, Twitch whispers, “He’s beautiful.”

My chest aches. “Yes, he is.”

“He’s mine.”

It’s difficult to breathe. “He’s yours.”

“Is he…”

The question dissolves into an agonized sob, which gets buried in my neck.

I know what he’s thinking. I feel his tears on my skin and it breaks my heart. A shudder runs through his body and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Wrong. “Noah’s perfect.”

“Noah,” he echoes.

“Mm-hm.”

Another shudder. Another sob.

Another piece of my heart shatters beyond repair.

Twitch is in far worse shape.

So, “I promise you he’s perfect.”