#barfight

He doesn’t respond, of course. Just stares at me like he’s plotting my murder. AKA, the usual.

I grab a gel ice pack from the freezer and press it to his bruised eye. It’s already turning black. Wonderful; just wonderful. Why couldn’t I have married someone who’s a stranger to violence? I’m not a nurse. I shouldn’t be cleaning up his face because he let someone else have their way with it.

I tilt his chin up, assessing the damage. Black eye, bruised face, blood seeping down his lips, and… is that dirt? How the hell did he get dirt on his face? Did he wrestle someone in a barn? Really, Christian? Really?

Just then I notice something. As I’m tilting his head to get a better look at it, his eyes flutter closed—no really, they flutter closed—like a butterfly. I can see the exhaustion seeping through his features in a way that I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to notice. I didn’t want to see that he’s human, just like I am. If you cut him, he’ll bleed. He’s not untouchable; no matter how much he claims to be.

His head relaxes in my hand and his breathing starts to even out. I place the ice pack on the counter beside his legs and continue wiping the blood off his beautifully bruised face. I enjoy the fact that he’s letting me do this without complaining. Without pushing me away. I kind of wish he did push me away. I don’t want to see him weak; it makes me feel things I shouldn’t.

“Bar fight,” he mutters underneath his breath.

I nod once. “I see. And what, pray tell, brought on this fight? I mean, I get it. You’re a naturally frustrating person. Who wouldn’t want to fight you? But, like, did you go to the bar specifically for a fight or did it happen randomly? God, please tell me you didn’t walk up to the biggest guy there and pick a fight with him. You’re smarter than that. Usually. Wait, is this about the argument we had yesterday? I told you—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he interrupts. “No, I didn’t go for a fight. It happened on its own.”

I press the ice pack back to his bruised eye, using my free hand to wipe some dirt off his forehead with my thumb. I feel like a mother bird, cleaning her child. And whoa, that’s not where I want my brain to be headed. Because I’m not a mother bird. I’m his wife. Sure, it was an arranged marriage and we’ve never really had a real conversation before, but still.

“Why is there dirt on you? Did you fight in the desert or something?”

“No,” he sighs. “It was a cowboy bar.”

I try to hold in my laugh; I really do, but it bubbles out nonetheless. “You, tough guy of the century, went to a cowboy bar? Did you wear a hat? Oh my God, did you buy some boots? Maybe wear a buttoned-up flannel? Did you—”

“Jane. Stop talking. Please.”

“Right. Yeah, okay. My bad. But did you?”

“No, I didn’t wear a Goddamn hat, or boots, or flannel. Can we drop this now?”

I nod profusely, probably too much. I definitely look like one of those bobbleheads. I’ll shut up. But there’s no way I’m not bringing up the fact that Christian went to a cowboy bar, like, every single time we have company for the foreseeable future.

Embarrassing him will be my new job. That’s what wifes are for, isn’t it?

I get distracted and start carding my fingers through his hair. It feels very tangled. I don’t even notice that I’ve dropped the ice pack until my brain connects the fact that both my hands are now in his hair, combing through the strands. Why is it so tangled? Doesn’t he own a brush?

“What are you doing?” His voice cuts through my thoughts. More specifically, the sound of it does. Deep, raspy, hoarse. AKA, the hottest way a man can speak. Granted, the hottest way Christian can speak is to not speak at all, but this is a close second.

“Hm?”

But he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts his head back, making no move to stop me. His breathing sounds ragged at this point and I can’t tell if that has anything to do with me or if I’m imagining the entire thing. Maybe this entire encounter isn’t even happening. Maybe I’m daydreaming again. Or worse, I’m asleep. Dreaming about him would be catastrophic for my brain. My thoughts are chaotic enough. I don’t need to confuse them even more.

“Jane,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

I’m scratching his scalp at this point. A rather intimate gesture, but I can’t stop myself from enjoying the quiet tenderness of the moment we’re sharing. He doesn’t seem so scary when he’s relaxed like this.

“Take the pack off?”

It takes me a second to figure out what he means. What pack? You expect me to think of anything but the way you’re relaxing under my fingers, Christian? You expect me to think clearly right now?

Then, I look down and notice that the ice pack I had dropped at some point in the last five minutes is resting on his lap. On top of his dick, to be more precise. And it’s cold. Which can feel nice there, I guess. It’s not like I haven’t experimented with that. But maybe that’s not what he needs right now.

I pull the pack off his lap and step away to put it back in the freezer. When I turn around, Christian’s standing directly in front of me. Of course, I slam right into his chest. Why wouldn’t I? Firstly, there’s my luck with, oh, I don’t know, anything ever. But then there’s the fact that he moved right in my way. What did he expect? I’m not a psychic. I can’t tell when he moves. He’s a ninja. My husband is a ninja.

“Thanks,” he grunts, like it physically pains him to say that one word to me.

“Yeah. No worries. I mean, you were hurt. What was I gonna do? Let you bleed out? I suppose I could’ve done that. Really, I would have no problem doing that. You’re very capable of taking care of yourself. I’m also very capable. I’m sure you’ve figured that out. Yep. So, I’m gonna shut up now. Goodnight.”

He grabs my wrist before I can make any move to walk away.

“I hate sleeping alone.”

I’m so shocked by the words, I have to pinch my arm to make sure I’m not dreaming. Nope. Not dreaming. And that hurt.

“Oh. That sucks. Really, that’s… unfortunate.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded. “Now is the time where you minimize your word count?”

My eyes widen. “Oh, was that an invitation? Do you want me to sleep with you? In your bed? I can do that, I guess. It’s just that the whole time we’ve lived together, you’ve never once asked me to, so I just… um, didn’t. Obviously, I have no problem sleeping with you. In your bed. Under your sheets. That smell like you. Not that you have a distinct smell. I definitely didn’t notice anything like that. Well, since we’re bringing it up, I might as well—”

His hand claps over my mouth.

“Stop talking,” he sighs. “It was more of a statement than an invitation, but you’re more than welcome to sleep in my bed. Especially after you… took care of me tonight.” He pauses. “Would you like to?”

I open my mouth to respond, but he interrupts me. Again.

“Nod or shake your head.”

I nod in response.

“Great. Just don’t kick me in your sleep.”

I push his hand away. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my ways.”