Ignoring my apparent irritation, Chase lowers himself slowly onto the toilet lid, puts his head in his hands and doesn't talk. I frown at him, trying not to show how nervous I am that he's genuinely hurt, as I quickly wash my hands, then snap on some gloves, and tear open a sterile pad to mop him up.
"Chase?" I'm in front of him by the time he lifts his head out of his hands. And when he sees me there, holding the white cotton, he swallows and nods, and sits up straight, but he's stiff and wary. Like there's something he doesn't want me to touch.
That must have been some punch, he's acting like every move hurts.
I put a hand under his chin and tip it up so I can look at his pupils. They're even, but he grimaces like the light's hurting them, so I let his chin go and turn his head to press the pad against the blood that's dripping down his face.
He closes his eyes and his shoulders drop. But lines on his brow don't ease up. What isn't he letting on?
