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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞-𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐭
𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐
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H E R
"Carl?" My knuckles rapped quickly against the bathroom door, near panic evident in my voice. I had woken up late to find his side of the bed cold, the blankets tucked in close to me where he should have been.
"Yeah?" He responded with that lovely, husky voice, and I more or less bulldozed through the door, shoving it out of my way. The boy turned away from the mirror, rolling his broad shoulders as his bare upper half faced me. His hand was lifted, placed gently over a clean white bandage taped awkwardly over the bottom of his right rib cage, close to the bullet scar from his youth that never quite healed properly.
I went to him, reaching out to investigate only to have my touch intercepted by his own. He clasped my hands in both of his large ones. "Dumbass, you're hurt?" I fretted, not letting him distract me.
"No, I'm fine." He insisted, tone gentle.
"What happened?" I pressed, knowing it couldn't be too detrimental if he simply covered it himself and was up walking around unscathed.
"Was whittling," He let me go to demonstrate, the lower hand holding an imaginary piece of wood and the upper holding an imaginary knife, pulling the top one in towards himself. "Forgot you're supposed to do it away from you." Letting out a dry chuckle, he shuffled passed me, leaving his dirty flannel and over shirt on the counter.
I followed after him to our room, totally rapt by his appearance of just the belted denim jeans and exposed skin. "I woke up late, you weren't here..." I bit my lip, feeling pitiful, but Carl wasn't one to judge.
"I am here." The boy pulled me into his warm chest, though he cringed a bit when I came into contact with his covered wound.
