A Bad Boy in my life

Fourty three

POV: MARGO

Three days later, my concern for Maxon started taking on a bigger shape when I didn't hear from him during that time. He didn't call or even send a message to update me on his status, and that began to make me a tad uneasy.

Honestly, I found myself glancing at my phone before bedtime, wondering if I should reach out. Not that I was trying to play the overly worried card, but let's face it, he might be a bit of a stubborn idiot, but I could tell he was in a fragile state, even if he wouldn't admit it. It would have just been comforting to know he's functional during this radio silence.

But here I was, clueless. No idea if he was in pain, needed assistance with those bandages, or if Tom managed to track him down...

So, I decided to make a call. On the fourth day of silence, I shrugged off any concerns about looking silly and called. Not really caring if it seemed a little weird, especially after that almost-kiss incident. All I really wanted to know was if he was alright.

But, well, you guessed it, no answer. Not the first time, nor the second, third, fourth... you get the drill. My worry meter practically doubled after all those unanswered calls.

Driven by this growing anxiety, the sheer agony of not knowing, I eventually ditched another class to go look for Maxon. Yeah, I thought to myself, "Margo, you're nailing this."

An hour-long cab ride later, I stood in front of his small cottage in Malvern. That ride didn't come cheap, costing me a cool forty bucks.

Stepping up onto the wooden deck, it creaked beneath me until I halted in front of the door. Knocked twice and waited. Nothing. Knocked two more times and waited. Still nothing.

I took a walk around the house and, lo and behold, found an open window. With some pallets conveniently lying around, I crafted a makeshift boost to help me reach it, and bingo—I hopped inside.

Then out of nowhere, I felt arms around me, and before I could even process it, I was staring down the barrel of a knife.

The person holding the knife eased off when they recognized my face.

"Margo?" He said, genuinely surprised.

"Maxon!" I scolded him, and he let me go.

"Man," He slapped his hand against his head, "how do you even manage to pull off something like this? I seriously thought it was someone else."

I shot back, "Maybe give the door a try next time?"

"Why are you here?" He asked.

"Why are you ghosting my calls?"

Seeing he couldn't out-question me, he sighed and wandered into the kitchen, leaving the knife in the sink.

"I didn't want to disturb you," he explained.

"Sure, but guess who's been calling?"

"And I knew you were calling to check up on me."

"Yeah, because I was worried. You didn't send any messages, didn't let me know how you were," I paused for effect, "and honestly, I wouldn't have minded. If you'd done that, maybe I wouldn't have needed to make this grand entrance."

I could see a flicker of a smile on his face as he looked at me.

"I'm fine. Just aching now and then, and my bandaging skills don't match up to yours. But hey, I'm not the offspring of a firefighter," he said, tongue-in-cheek.

"Mind if I take a look?" I asked.

After a quick thought, he nodded.

"Sure."

He headed over to the two-seater sofa against the wall, settled down, and lifted his shirt.

"Mind if I?" I gestured to the bandage on his abdomen, and he chuckled.

As I unwound the bandage, I furrowed my brows at the sight of the wound.

"Well, doctor?" He teased.

"It's not looking great. Should've started scabbing by now. It's still exposed. You shouldn't strain it, or it'll take ages to heal."

I carefully covered the wound again, and he pulled his shirt back down.

"How're you managing with one hand and one leg? All alone?"

He shrugged.

"I do what I can. Showering's probably the trickiest part," and zipping up pants, I thought, "but the rest is manageable."

"'Manageable'?" I chuckled. "You might just be the most optimistic person I've seen."

"There's another word for it—self-reliance."

I let out a laugh.

"Got it," I said.

They flashed a closed-lip smile.

"So, what happened to wanting space from me?" they asked, always good at ruining a moment.

He smiled, lips pressed together.

"So, what happened to needing space from me?" he asked, always good at injecting a dose of reality.

I looked down briefly, fiddled with my nails, and met his gaze again.

I shrugged.

"I'm your lifeline," I echoed his words.

His smile softened.

"Gotcha," he said.

I sighed, crossed my legs, and settled onto the sofa.

"What're you up to, to pass the time here?"

He shrugged.

"TV, some smoking... phone scrolling, thoughts of you," he said, leaning his elbow on the back of the sofa.

I almost asked what thoughts exactly, but thought better of it.

"Sounds like a bore," I said.

"It beats that hospital room, any day."

"At least there, doctors would be on your case."

"Here, I've got you," he said, corners of his lips turning up slightly.

"Maxon," I furrowed my brow, "I can't come here daily to play nurse."

He furrowed his.

"I'm not asking you to."

"...I'm heading back to my dad's place in a few days," I confessed.

He moistened his lips with his tongue.

"When?"

"No concrete date yet. But for now," I gave a half-smile, "I could swing by weekly, keep you company. Or whenever you need a rescue."

He swallowed, then forced a half-smile of his own.

"That'd be great."