Separation Anxiety

Chapter Nine | Protect

⚠️cw: eating disorder talk!

Clay's behavior during the call was incredibly strange. I couldn't help but wonder why he defended and muted me. Simply talking to his father didn't seem like a valid reason to me. I waited for a while, growing increasingly curious, when suddenly there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Clay standing there, visibly beaten and battered.

I was shocked. "What on earth happened to you, Clay? You look absolutely terrible! Did you get into a fight or something?"

I asked, concern evident in my voice. Clay turned away, avoiding eye contact and looking down.

"Huh, I told you it was bad," he muttered.

Realizing the unintended implication of my previous statement, I hurriedly corrected myself, stumbling over my words. "I'm sorry, Clay. I didn't mean to make you feel ugly. What I meant was that you look physically beaten up, not that your face is unattractive... uh..."

Suddenly, it dawned on me what I had just said, and I blushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, Clay, that was really sweet of you to say," I replied, touched by his response.

He smirked, I blushed.

"Idiot."

I looked over at him; if he looks this bad on his face what about under his clothes? I shook my head, why am I thinking like this?

As I glanced at Clay, his visibly battered face made me wonder about the condition of his body beneath his clothes. I shook my head, questioning why such thoughts were crossing my mind.

"Have you done anything to treat your injuries? There's still blood everywhere," I inquired, furrowing my brow. He hesitated, clearly indicating that he hadn't taken any steps.

"I, uh..."

"Alright, come on. We need to clean you up," I asserted, determined to help him. I took hold of his arm and led him towards the sink, but he resisted.

"George, no!"

"Please, get on the counter," I insisted, pointing to the designated spot. With a sigh, he reluctantly climbed onto the counter, aware that my determination wouldn't waver. I proceeded to clean up the blood, which seemed to have splattered everywhere. Did he go home looking like this? Why did he appear so severely injured? While I had never experienced a mugging myself, I couldn't recall seeing someone hurt this badly by a random stranger. After finishing, I took a moment to observe his body... Wait, did he look even skinnier than the last time I saw him? Had he not been eating since I sent him home?

"Clay, what have you been eating during all this time you've been away?" I asked, my frown deepening. He shifted his gaze to the ground, unable to deceive me.

"You haven't been eating, have you?" I sighed, realizing the extent of his neglect.

"Alright, it's time to get you back on track. Come on!" I exclaimed, grabbing his arm and leading him to the table.

"Sit," I commanded, pointing to the chair. Clay pleaded with his puppy eyes, desperately hoping to avoid the situation.

"Sit your ass down!" I responded firmly, giving him an angry look. He frowned reluctantly before taking a seat. I kept a watchful eye on him, making sure he didn't try to leave the table as I prepared the food. Once it was ready, I placed the plate in front of him and looked at him with concern.

"Clay, you need to eat," I said, my frown reflecting my worry.

"I know," he responded quietly.

"Then eat before I have to force-feed you again," I sighed, feeling the weight of the situation. He simply stared at the food, avoiding eye contact. I picked up his fork from the table and scooped up a bite, turning towards him.