October 2006

Zoe

Mark's rigid routine and shift patterns see us crossing paths at set times of the day, so when I get home from uni to find him sitting on the sofa instead of cooking dinner like he usually does after a day shift, I instantly know something's wrong. And that's before I notice his elbows propped on his knees and his head buried in his large hands, knuckles white where he clutches tufts of dark hair.

"Hey," I say cautiously, easing the door shut with a quiet click. "Everything okay?"

He doesn't move, and neither do I. Even after two months living together, I struggle to read him, but today he seems different. Dare I say it, emotional. I mean, I've seen his emotions before—predominantly anger and frustration. Not always directed at me, but often.

I'm a fast learner, though, and I've adapted around his routines, picked up on what irritates him and what pacifies him. Shared cooking—he likes that. It's the only thing we do together, and even then it's not really a joint activity considering that we take it in turns. So now, when I get home and see no evidence of dinner in progress, I know this isn't a normal day.

Sucking in a deep breath of courage, I set my keys onto the worktop and bend to pick up the pile of mail on the floor. Usually Mark leaves the post on the coffee table for me. I sift through it, pausing on a letter for him with INGLATERRA scribbled below the hand-written address. Who does he know in Spain? It's none of my business, but maybe we have something in common after all.

I edge towards the coffee table and lean over to place the envelopes in the centre. He doesn't acknowledge my presence, not with his usual grunt or nod, nor with his lip-curl of displeasure when I do something he doesn't like.

As I straighten up, my fingers itch to touch his shoulder. To comfort or reassure. I'm not sure he'd like that, though. Plus, I still can't tell what's wrong, and given that he doesn't like physical contact during his normal moods, it's probably best to avoid it when he's vulnerable and no doubt extra spiky.

For several seconds, I stand in front of him and watch, like a visitor at a zoo observing a caged lion. One wrong move, and he'd bite my head off. Like that time I forgot to put the bins out, or when I smashed his favourite mug.

I'm so close to him that he has to know I'm here. With tension locking his broad shoulders and his hands clenched into fists, he's too stiff to be asleep. Maybe I should take the hint and leave him be. Then again, if he wanted privacy, he'd be in his bedroom, not in the lounge.

Slowly, I lower to my knees in front of him. He hasn't removed his boots, which is another red flag. Normally he won't step an inch off the welcome mat until he's taken off his shoes.

"Mark." I nudge my elbow against his calf. That doesn't really count as physical contact, right?

When he continues to ignore me, a flicker of irritation heats my cheeks. I know he's not the best communicator, but an acknowledgement would be nice. Even if he wants to be alone, tell me that. I'm not a mind reader.

Unable to hide my frustration at his cold attitude, I sigh and rise to my feet. Then, just as I turn for my room, a warm grip clamps around my wrist. My eyes shoot south. He still has his face buried in one hand, but his other set of fingers wrap around me, tight, firm.

"Stay."

It's one word, soft and gruff. Barely audible, but laced with enough pain to halt me in my tracks.

I glance at the space beside him, sofa cushions plump and inviting despite the hostile creature occupying the other half. But when he fails to let go of my wrist, I sink back down to my knees. His touch falls away, arm now limp by his side.

"Want to talk about it?" I ask, even though I have higher odds of winning the lottery than getting my aloof flatmate to open up.

Silent seconds drag by. For some reason he wants me here, and it's apparently not to talk.

With trembling fingers, I brush my hand against his. When he doesn't pull away, my confidence builds and I trail my thumb over his knuckles.

Physical comfort. I can do that.

But then he casually lifts his hand to his lap, out of reach. A sting of rejection pierces my heart.

Nothing I do is ever good enough for him. Two months we've lived together. Shared a tiny flat. Eaten each other's food. Cleaned a joint bathroom. And still, I can't even—

His head lifts to look at me, and my spiralling thoughts come to a screeching stop.

"Oh, my god." My hand slaps over my mouth before I can say anything else, but even that tiny slip has irritated him. I can see it in the way his cut lips flatten together, his grazed cheek clenching.

"I can't move," he tells me.

I scan his body, but he's still wearing his uniform. Black fabric hides any other potential injuries.

"What happened? Where are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?"

He shakes his head. "I've already been to the hospital. Can you just get me some painkillers?"

"Oh, uh, sure, but did they give you some at the hospital? And what kind? I don't want to—"

"Zoe. Please." His green eyes are hard as they lock onto mine. "I've been sat here for two hours. My body has seized up. You're not going to cause me to overdose."

I bite my lip. "I can help you up."

He scoffs, then winces. Good. Dismissing me so quickly should hurt, you idiot. I may be a foot shorter, but I can hold my own.

"I'm stronger than I look. I did gymnastics for ten years. My core strength is probably better than yours."

It's probably not, but I can't help the defensive reaction. Guys like him always underestimate me. It grates after a while. Especially when I'm trying to help.

"Can you just get me the painkillers please?" His voice is softer now, like he's trying a different tactic.

Has he even been to the hospital? Maybe he's lying. If he's too stubborn to accept help from me, what are the chances he's sought proper medical advice?

Pride encourages me to tell him where he can shove his request, but I ignore it. He's clearly had a bad day. I'll get his stupid painkillers, since that's apparently the only thing he needs me for, and then he can suffer alone.

I haul myself upright and storm over to the bathroom. Two boxes of paracetamol sit behind the sink mirror. I grab one and pluck out the foil packet, where just a single capsule remains. Don't be a stubborn bitch, Zoe...

Screw him. If he claims he's been to the hospital, I'll claim I don't want to accidentally over-medicate him.

He's in the same position when I return, but with his hand outstretched in preparation for the painkillers.

"Want water?" I ask, shoving the packet into his palm.

"No." He glances at the torn foil, just one section left unbroken, and his jaw ticks. "I lost my best friend today. You could try to show me some fucking sympathy."

My heart plummets to my belly. Ice wraps around my body, freezing me to the spot, suffocating me until I can barely breathe.

"What?" I choke out.

He grunts and tosses the single pill into his mouth. With a grimace, he tips his head back and swallows.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Arrest gone wrong. I don't want to talk about it."

Doesn't want to talk about it? He tells me his friend died—if that's what he meant, anyway—and nothing else? I guess it's none of my business. Not really. I shouldn't make it about me.

"Fine." I lick my dry lips. "We won't talk about it. Tell me how I can help you physically."

His eyes slowly lift to mine, dark and still mildly irritated. Warmth floods my cheeks.

"Not like that," I say quickly. "Not unless you... I mean... No. Sorry. Not like that."

"I know what you meant. Can you fetch my bag?"

I spin to search for it. A plain black rucksack rests against his bedroom door. Physical help? What the hell is wrong with me? He may have the personality of a robot, but he has the body of an athlete and the face of a model. All lean muscles, sharp jawline, and emerald eyes. He could get physical affection from anyone. He's not going to want it from his annoying, short flatmate who refuses to give him the medication he needs.

Especially not when he's in pain.

Bag in hand, I scurry back over to him, then drop it at his feet. He leans down, but the second his fingers graze the zip, a low groan vibrates from his throat. Eyes pinched shut, he grits his teeth.

"Fuck."

"What's wrong? What do you need?" I fall to my knees again and tug at the zip until the rucksack opens.

I can't watch people in pain. No matter how rude they are, it speaks to me on a cellular level, as if reminding me that every human has the same ability to feel, even when they don't act like it.

With a hiss, Mark collapses back into the sofa cushions, head tipped towards the ceiling, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He's definitely suffering. And it's not because of his face.

Inside his bag I find a collection of bandages, adhesives, and dressings. So apparently he has been to the hospital. I shuffle through the rest of the contents and discover an A4 sheet scrunched at the bottom, detailing which medication he's been given. The name of the painkiller means nothing to me, which suggests it's an extra-strong, prescription-only drug.

I pick out a square-shaped dressing and peer up at him. "Where else are you hurt?"

"My leg and my groin."

Before he can stop me, I reach for the hem of his shirt and tug it upwards. Bright red blood seeps through the dressing fixed across his lower abdomen. It disappears beneath the waistband of his black trousers.

He doesn't stop me when I ease the stiff leather belt strap through the cold buckle, nor when I inch down his fly and pop open the top button.

"Can I?" I murmur.

Eyes still shut, he grunts. I drag his trousers down, and with a pained lift of his hips, they come free from his thighs. Another dressing is taped to his upper inner leg, this one less blood stained.

"Can you just... " His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. "Can you help me replace the dressings? I'll then try to get some sleep and it will hopefully be better in the morning."

"How deep is it?" I ask, like I have a clue what difference that makes. "It's obviously painful."

"It's fine."

It's not fine. I've seen more emotion from this man in ten minutes than in the whole two months we've known each other. If it was fine, he'd be better able to hide the pain.

I'm no doctor, and I don't like the idea of carrying responsibility for medical care, but I wash my hands thoroughly and peel away the existing dressings. He sucks in a sharp breath as the adhesive comes unstuck. Luckily I'm not squeamish, and I work quickly yet carefully.

By the time I'm finished, the paracetamol has started to kick in. Mark drags himself over to his room but stops with his hand on the door.

He glances back at me over his shoulder. "Thank you, Zoe."

Nothing more is said about his friend.

*

Over the next few days, I see even less of him than usual. He's not working, but he hides in his room and only comes out for food. Does he have any friends? Family? Someone he can talk to about the loss he's suffering?

As I'm clearing away plates, he hovers midway between the kitchen and lounge. His hand grips the back of the sofa, fingers biting into the cushions.

"Could you help me with the dressing on my leg?" he eventually asks.

I glance up from the sink. "Haven't you changed it since the other day?"

"Yes, but it aggravates the other one when I bend. I want to speed up the healing process, not slow it down."

"Okay. Sure. Where are your dressings?"

He hobbles back into his room before I can offer to fetch them myself. At least he's asking for help, even in his roundabout way of suggesting it's for his own good.

Hands washed and armed with fresh dressings, I drop to the floor in front of him again. It's not exactly how I imagined being on my knees for this guy, but then I never imagined I'd be treating him for mysterious wounds that he still won't talk about either.

I begin the painful process of detaching the current dressing. It pinches his thigh as I try to tear it away, hairs stuck to the adhesive and stretching his skin. Taking a deep breath to refocus, I sit back on my heels and give him a break.

"Sorry." I peek up at him. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

Mark stares back down, eyes hooded, jaw tight. I get it. He wants this over and done with, and I'm pulling my usual trick of making his life difficult.

Banishing my nerves, I lower my attention to his legs again, only for my gaze to trip up on his boxers. A definite bulge has appeared that wasn't there before. It strains against the black fabric, thick and hard.

I daren't look up at him, but clearly he realises I've clocked it, because his voice is gruff when he says,

"Don't take it personally. Grief has a funny way of fucking with your head."

Rejection slams into me. It's stupid, really. Of course he's not turned on by me changing his dressing. It's a painful, awkward situation. But does he really have to be so brutal about it? When I'm helping him, no less?

Sympathy shredded, I yank the remaining dressing away from his skin. He hisses, one hand darting out to grab onto the wall.

Seconds later, I'm done. With his medical care and his company. He's lost his friend. Presumably he's passed away, even though he hasn't confirmed that. He's said nothing. Shared nothing. And that's fine—we're not close. He doesn't owe me anything.

"Let me know if you need a hand changing it again next time." I clamber to my feet and don't meet his eye.

"Thank you."

Sincere he might be, I don't want to feel sorry for myself any longer. He's right. Grief can mess with your head, and he's probably got all sorts flying through his conscious. Especially when he doesn't talk, those thoughts must be deafening with no outlet.

An hour later, a knock rattles my door. He waits until I acknowledge him, and then he leans a hip on the frame, eyes trained on me.

"They're knife wounds," he says. "We didn't know he was armed. I escaped with minor cuts and bruises. Ben was slashed in the neck. He died in the ambulance."

Words fail me. I can only stare at his tall figure blocking my doorway. The emotional trauma... I can't even imagine.

"I'm not sleeping very well. It keeps replaying in my head. He died because he stepped in front of the offender to protect me. He died because of me."

"Oh my God, Mark. No. You—"

He closes his eyes and holds up a palm to silence me. "I'm exhausted, I'm in pain, and I'm missing my best friend. I shouldn't have said what I said... But, Zoe, you need to start calling me out on this shit. Don't let me walk all over you."

My heart flutters. "I can't imagine what you're going through. I'm not going to hold it against you if your emotions control your mouth."

Emerald eyes hold me captive. "You once told me that you didn't want to objectify me. That's what I was trying to say back then. Just with far less tact."

I finger my pink duvet. "It's fine. Honestly."

His chest inflates with a deep sigh. Now that he's said what he came here to say, I expect him to leave. He doesn't.

"I'm not good at opening up. I don't like talking about myself or my feelings or thoughts... I always spoke to Ben."

A crushing sadness squeezes my heart. He's either making an effort to compensate for his earlier harshness, or he's in so much pain that he's desperate for an outlet. I don't know how to be that person for him, but if he wants me to be, I can try.

"You can always talk to me. Even if you just want me to sit in silence while you get it off your chest, so it's not a, you know, conversation or whatever."

"Thank you." He drums his fingers against the doorframe, as if contemplating it, but then bows his head.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mark," I add. "If there's anything I can do to ease the pain..."

He nods and murmurs another whisper of gratitude before backing out of my room. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

This was a two-month jump from the last chapter. Some chapters will be 1-2 months apart, others will carry on immediately. I'll keep the dates & POVs at the start of each one for clarity. 

We saw more of Zoe in this chapter! What did you think? 

Also... Sorry for killing off Ben so soon. He may be gone as a character, but his presence is very much felt throughout the rest of the story <3