GHOST OF YOU | BWS

nineteen.

By the time I'm at his apartment, I am soaking wet and frozen to the bones, my hair and clothes dripping down onto the tiled floor, leaving a pool of water around me. l hesitate a second before knocking on his door, my heart racing in my chest. What if he's dead? Because of me. Only one way to find out. I take a deep breath and knock gently on the door. When it suddenly opens, I realize I was holding my breath, and when I see his face I feel like I can finally breathe again. He's not dead. A wave of relief hits me. Relief mixed with something else. Something I can't quite put a finger on. Gosh, I've never been so happy to see him. The few seconds it takes him to realize I'm standing at his door are enough for my eyes to see his bruised and swollen face. Oh God, what have they done to him. Before I can open my mouth to ask him, he grabs my arm and pulls me inside quite roughly after looking down both sides of his doorway and closes the door behind us once we're inside.

"What the fuck are you doing here", he asks, looking agitated.

I don't pay attention to what he is saying, too focused on his bruised face. His left eyebrow is cut, dried blood picking out of the cut, a blackeye shines on his swollen right eye and his split lip has turned purple. I suddenly feel sick at the idea that he was hurt because of me. And James's fate is probably not any better. Why is seeing him like this affecting me so much?

"Joy!", Brad repeats, trying to get my attention. "You shouldn't be here", he adds and I finally meet his eyes.

The initial shock on his face has been replaced with worry and... Fear?

"What happened to you?", he continues as he stretches his hand towards my face and softly touches the skin on my cheek, careful not to apply any pressure on it. I wince nonetheless, the pain still present despite the painkillers, and turn my head to the side to avoid any more contact with his hand. He quickly removes his hand, conscious of the pain it is afflicting me.

"Nothing", I answer, looking at the floor, not bearing to look at him in the eyes.

"Joaquin did that to you, didn't he?", he states through gritted teeth.

His tone tells me it isn't a question. I finally bring my eyes up to meet his again. Seeing him worry about me while he is in a way worse state than I makes me feel like an idiot. I brought that to us. No one else but me. How can he look so devastated seeing me like this when he got beaten up because of me?

"It doesn't matter", I answer, tears threatening to spill as I look at him.

This time it's my turn to bring my hand to his face.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault", I say and his eyebrows furrow.

Contrary to me, he doesn't flinch when my fingers make contact with his skin, as if he's not even in pain despite the evidence on his face. He grabs my hand from his cheek and brings it down, but doesn't let it go.

"What do you mean it's your fault?", he asks, and I raise an eyebrow. "You have nothin—", he starts to add but I cut him off.

"He asked me if I knew you", I admit, not able to control my tears anymore. "He didn't leave me a choice. Oh God—", I add, barely making any sense, before completely breaking down. "I'm s-sorry", I stammer, barely able to breathe through my sobs and unable to see anything around me anymore, my vision blurred by tears.

Within seconds I feel a strong pair of arms wrap around me, and hold me tight. Being in Brad's arms is getting too comfortable. How often have I been in this situation already? But today it doesn't matter. I stay there, my cheek against his chest, a wet patch growing larger by the second on his shirt where my tears end their course. I am thankful he doesn't move, or say anything. We simply stand in the middle of his entryway, wrapped in each other's arms as if time was a foreign notion. When my sobs finally calm down, he still doesn't move, and waits until I am the one pulling away before unwrapping his arms from me. My eyes are fixed on the wet patch on his shirt, my lower lip still shaking between my teeth.

"You're freezing", he says as he places his warm hand on my freezing jaw, careful not to put his fingers anywhere remotely close to my bruises and forces me to lift my head up and look at him.

His eyes are soft and caring, something I am not used to seeing on him. He is always so closed up and angry.

"Everything's gonna be alright, okay?", he says, looking at me with concern. "Here", he continues as he grabs my hand and pulls me towards the bathroom. "Take a hot shower, and then you'll tell me what happened, okay?"

I stay quiet and simply nod, a few tears still running down my cheeks. I feel beyond stupid, standing here, crying in front of him when all of this is my fault. He knew that would happen, he warned me about it, and yet here I am having a mental breakdown at his place after he was beaten up because of me.

"Hold on", he adds before disappearing out of the room and coming back with clothes in his hands. "Just leave your clothes on the floor, I'll throw them in the dryer", he says before turning around and leaving me alone in the room.