Page 9 of Missed Steps

Mark looks abashed and guilty. It’s a handsome look on him, but I’m a sucker and don’t like the thought of him feeling bad. “It’s fine,” I say. “I didn’t mean to curse at you earlier.”

“I get it,” Mark says. His hand is back on my thigh, his thumb rubbing me above the spot where the ice-pack is. It’s nice.

There’s a pause of awkward silence. I’m not sure how to fill it.

“Where are the crutches? I’ll get them for you.” Mark swivels his head, searching the room.

“They’re next to my bed. There.” I nod him in the right direction and he returns with them. He eyes me up as he sets them down against the couch.

“I can grab a pair of shorts for you,” Mark says.

I glance at him.

“So you can take off the prosthetic and change out of the jeans,” he adds.

“No,” I say. Like I mentioned earlier, I’m in the pits of denial—I don’t like looking at my stump under any circumstances.

Mark’s cheek indents like he’s biting it on the inside. His hands twitch at his sides. “What if you’re all bruised?”

“I’m sure I am.”

Mark doesnotlike that answer. His eyes narrow.

“I’ll treat myself. Later.”

“Once I’m gone?”

“Once you’re gone.”

Mark doesn’t look convinced, but it’s not as if he can force me to remove my prosthetic.

“Okay,” Mark says, looking somewhat frustrated. “Can I get you anything before I leave?” He gestures to the kitchen. “Want me to warm up any of those meals?”

“No. Thanks.”

Mark lingers, shifting his weight. “What about my number?”

“What about it?”

“I’ll put it in your phone.”

“I have it,” I say. I quickly realise that’s weird given our relationship up till now. “We’ve been in a million team chats. Remember?” I don’t ask if he has my number saved. His question implies that he doesn’t, and I’m too shy to offer it.

Marks licks his lips, and his weight shifts around restlessly again. “Can I drive you to class in the morning?”

“No,” I answer before he’s finished asking. I add a smile to soften the rejection. “I appreciate the offer, but no.” I would feel too weird accepting.

Mark runs a restless hand through his hair. It’s very visually stimulating, especially with his hair all mussed up by the end. Mark has nice hair, wavy, thick, and as dark as his eyes—ebony in sunlight, black anytime else. He drops his hands with a sigh. “Make sure to use the bruising cream anywhere that’s sore, even if there isn’t a bruise yet.”

“Okay.”

“And ice down everywhere that is even slightly tender.”

“Okay.”

“And—”

“Mark,” I say, exasperated and amused. “Go.”