A Bad Boy in my life

Twenty

The noise of the gate opening was the last thing I heard before leaving my accommodations at two in the morning, dressed in my pajamas and slippers, just to find out if it was Maxon who had just arrived.

For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about him ever since I walked back home in the cold, covering a distance of about five hundred meters. Besides catching a slight cold from my wet clothes, the walk gave rise to endless "what if" questions that may never be answered.

The day passed by, and I was unable to sleep, wondering why Maxon hadn't come home yet.

It's silly for me to worry about it, considering that episodes like this are not uncommon, but I can't get the thought out of my head that he might be in trouble.

And why the hell should I care about his problems? Better yet, why should it keep me up at night?... Well, I don't know either.

Just as I was beginning to close my eyes, the sound of the gate was enough to wake me up again.

I got up and went to the kitchen with the pretense of getting a glass of water, but I left the glass on the countertop when I heard something fall from the garage.

"Maxon!?" I exclaimed upon seeing him lying beneath his motorcycle.

"Help me," he pleaded.

I offered him support to help him up since he wasn't able to do it on his own at the moment.

"What happened?" I asked automatically.

Seeing that he wasn't in the best condition to speak, I decided to save the interrogation for later.

"Come here," I assisted him in walking to the kitchen, where the light allowed me to see his state more clearly.

Maxon sat on one of the stools by the island and ran his hands over his face, frustrated.

Swiftly, I retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet and placed it on the counter before examining him.

There were a few cuts on his cheek that had stained his face with a bit of blood. His lips were slightly swollen and red. His cheekbones were bruised, and a thin line of blood extended from his nose to his mouth.

Heavens!

This is the second time he's come home injured since I arrived here, and I wonder if this happens frequently. But now he's three times worse than he was two days ago.

I stood beside him, took some cotton with antiseptic, and started dabbing his wounds. He didn't even flinch or show any sign of pain; he simply stared at me silently, expressionless.

I discarded the cotton in the trash when it became too dirty, took fresh ones, and continued cleaning without saying anything for a few minutes.

Maxon adjusted his posture and began removing his jacket, followed by his shirt, revealing another larger wound on the left side of his chest.

I gasped when I looked at it and immediately started cleaning the area. He winced as the product came into contact with his skin and turned his head to the side, grimacing in pain.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, somewhat ridiculously. My intention was simply to get him to say something.

He looked back at me.

"Just... take it easy," he said, gripping my hand, sending a slight shiver down my spine.

Why does every word this man utters exude mystery and intrigue?

I followed his instructions as I glanced at the region of his abdomen. I had never seen so many scars gathered in one place. The tattoos helped to camouflage them to some extent, but one in particular caught my attention.