Midnight Lips | Ghost

𝐂𝐇. 40

𝐕𝐀𝐋
༻❁༺

     It took one look at myself in the mirror to understand why Alejandro cared so much, because I looked like I'd been kidnapped (joke) and oh God I looked so disgusting. My hair was messier and darker than usual, and my face was mixed with dried blood and a little bit of dirt that almost made me throw up on the spot. I pursed my lips and hid my face by looking down. "Oh, I look disgusting."

"Never."

Even though that wasn't my intention when I said it, my stomach warmed and a smile tugged at my lips, though I didn't find it in me to smile just yet. He was just so sweet without even intending to and I liked it a little too much.

Simon set me down on the sink, facing away from the mirror, and stepped between my legs with a hint of a smile in his eyes, before they went back to their normal self. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere."

"Where does it hurt the most?"

Now that I thought about it... "My thumb." My gaze fell to my hands that were tucked between our bodies. The base of my thumb had a purple bruise already formed, and if I ignored the cuts, my thumb was beating in pain now that my eyes were looking at the mess.

And then Simon's fingers wrapped around my hand in such a delicate way it seemed wrong to have these strong hands holding my broken one. The pain was soon forgotten. It felt like his touch alone was healing me already. "Is it back in its place?" he asked, carefully pressing down on the base to make sure.

I sighed. "I believe so, yes." I tried to move it around a little but winced at the slight pain that shot up my arm, but the fact that I could move my thumb told me it was back in place. "I do, really need a shower, Simon, and I was hoping you could help me with that."

He met my eyes and took a moment while he kept stroking my hand. "I will," he said, looking down. "I just need to make sure how many wounds you have before we move on to that."

I bit the inside of my lip. "Okay."

I regarded him, watched as he stepped back and search for something around the room. When he didn't find it, he slammed down the top of the toilet for some reason and turned back to me. I let out a squeal when he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me, settling me down on the toilet as if I was made of feathers and weighed nothing.

There was the thing he needed—a large white towel from under the sink that he placed on top of the sink. And then he proceeded to do the simplest yet the hottest thing: he pushed his sleeves up his elbows. Forget my concussion. Forget the dizziness, the tiredness, the sore body, because they all went out the window and all I could focus was on the fact that Simon was so fucking hot it didn't let me get any air in my lungs; I couldn't breathe.

I was mesmerized, watching him wash his hands, his wrists, his forearms—the veins. The way he grabbed the towel and gripped it in half, and then that half in half again like nothing. I guess it was too large for his liking but who cares? The man literally pulled a piece of towel apart like he was gripping a paper.

"Are you okay?"

"No," I said too fast because no, I wasn't okay, he was just too much for me. Was it a mistake choosing him to do this? Fuck no. The thought alone made me sad and angry with myself.